


For better or worse

by zipadeea



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Adoption, Automail, Blindness, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Soulmates, and unexpectedly become parents, but also angsty because it's roy and riza, but unexpectedly?, it's a cute story with fun OCs, roy and riza fall in love, then become parents the expected way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipadeea/pseuds/zipadeea
Summary: Roy and Riza always thought all they needed to be happy in life was each other. Then, they meet two Ishvalan orphans who teach them just how wrong they are.(Or: Mustang and Hawkeye fall in love and start a family. The process is just as conventional as you'd expect; which is to say, not at all.)





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Riza always loved each other. The falling in love came later. 
> 
> A love story told in reverse.

1915 - Central City

“Lieutenant, are you awake?” he whispers softly, voice gently pulling her to consciousness.

She opens her eyes.

Everything is dark, and blurry and oddly muffled. Her throat is pulled tight and vaguely she thinks it should hurt, it should be absolute _agony_ , but it’s all just a haze instead. The colonel’s in a seat by her bed, gripping her hand tightly.

She feels the bandages around his hands and everything comes crashing back.

“Keh--,” she garbles out wetly, but it’s all she manages besides a puff of air. Desperately, frantically, her free hand scrambles to her throat, scratching at the gauze and bandages there.

Her voice is gone.

Her voice is _gone_.

And her colonel can’t see her.

Roy Mustang has seen her cry twice, possibly three times in all the years that they’ve known each other. But all it takes is one sniff accompanying her soundless sob, and the blind colonel just _knows_ , his free hand reaching gently, carefully to find her face and wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“Hey, hey, shhhh, no don’t cry. Don’t cry, it’s alright. You just had surgery to fully repair the tear, it’s just a couple days. Just a couple days then you can talk again. You’re fine, I promise you’re fine.”

Instead she grips his hand with both her own, curls up in a ball and cries harder.

“Oh, Lieutenant,” he sighs, stroking her hair. God, she’s so weak. So foolish. She can’t talk for two days, and he is _blind_ , honest to God, can’t see a thing blind now, and he’s the one comforting her.

She bites her lip so hard she tastes blood, and all she wants to do is scream and wail.

But she can’t.

“Damn, you must be on a lot of drugs,” the colonel whispers, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Drugs. Oh. Oh, yeah maybe that…huh. The colonel looks toward the closed door with sightless eyes as though watching for someone.

A habit. A useless habit now.

“Fuck it. I’m blind, you’re hurt, if anybody reports us they’re assholes. Scoot over.” If Riza had her voice she would say no. She’d reprimand him, give him at least 27 different reasons why this is a stupid idea, an idiotic idea, inform him that they are absolutely not waylaying his path to the top even further by being caught in _bed_ together of all things…

Instead she scoots over.

The colonel gently rubs his hand up her arm to ensure it’s not the one with her IV, then carefully climbs in to bed. Everything about him now is so….gentle. There’s a slowness, a caution to every single movement he makes. It’s all dissected and thoroughly evaluated before the execution, because he can hear, he can feel but he can’t see, and it’s making everything he does so very deliberate.

Which is why Riza is rather shocked when he wraps his arms around her, pulling her curled body to his chest and cupping the back of her head with his hand.

“We’ll be alright, Riza,” Roy whispers into her ear, and Riza pretends she can’t feel the tears dripping onto her head. “I promise we will. I might not see you again, but I’ll hear you. I will, we’ll be alright.”

He sniffs, and Riza grips the front of his shirt in her hands.

“And even if I didn’t, even if your voice didn’t come back, we’d still be okay.” Riza looks up at him at that, another useless habit.

He doesn’t see her do it, but he feels it, and Riza sees the soft, sad smile on his face. “We’d be okay, Riza. You know me, and I know you. We’ve never really needed words, have we? No matter what happens you’re stuck with me. For better or worse, remember?”

Riza can’t help her small grin at that.

“I don’t care if I can’t see. I don’t care if I can’t hear you. I wouldn’t care if I couldn’t move or breathe on my own or speak. As long as I can still feel your heartbeat I don’t give a damn,” he says breathlessly. “They can have everything but you. As long as I have you, I can survive anything.”

Riza doesn’t stop crying for a long, long time.

000

1911 - East City

“Oooh, go get him, Riza,” Rebecca says, wagging her eyebrows and pointing discreetly to a brown haired man down the bar. “He’s been eyeing you all night.” Riza looks at the man out the side of her eye. He’s handsome, certainly, thick brown hair and wide blue eyes. From here he looks tall, which is always a nice perk, and the hand reaching for his glass of whiskey is large.

That’s a nice perk, too.

Riza doesn’t normally enjoy going out. She’s perfectly happy to go home and read a book, maybe listen to a radio serial with a glass of wine and go to bed.

But Rebecca’s in town. And sometimes, sometimes Riza just doesn’t _want_ to be Riza. She wants to leave behind the uptight Lieutenant with her perfect uniform and her scarred back and her damned soul. She wants to get dressed up and let the hair she’s growing out loose from its bun and have _fun_.

She wants to forget about the two broken little boys she met last month whose souls are just as damned as hers.

She wants to forget about the colonel she’s vowed to protect, promised to follow to the ends of the earth. The colonel she will be with always, who she can never actually _be_ with. The colonel who’s currently on a third date with a woman named _Vanessa_.

Vanessa is not one of his “sisters”, one of his secret informants or witnesses.

Riza certainly checked.

So she takes Rebecca’s advice and looks down the bar, catching the blue eyes before winking and smiling prettily. He smiles back widely and walks toward her.

She was right about him being tall.

“Can I get you a drink, Miss…?” he asks, voice deep.

“Elizabeth,” Riza answers, relishing the name, her full name but one used sparingly, only when she’s undercover playing a simpering fool. Only with _him_.

She’s taking her name back.

Riza feels a soft prod on her back, and, without looking, fishes her apartment keys out of the pocket of her skirt and hands them back to Rebecca.

“Be safe,” she whispers, and Riza can just _hear_ the smirk in her voice. Somewhere in the back of her head there’s a voice that sounds vaguely like her long dead mother, telling her she’s being rude, Rebecca’s her guest she can’t just abandon her.

Riza will apologize tomorrow.

She and the man, Richard, chat for a bit, as Riza finishes the drink he bought her. He’s from Central, in town for work. He’s in finance, and just so happens to be staying at the hotel down the road.

“And what do you do, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” Riza responds.

Riza knows she’s good at this, she knows all the right lines and glances, the ways to dress and the time to bite her lip, to look uncomfortable and too afraid to ask:

“Want to get out of here?”

Riza nods, and Richard smiles, enveloping her hand in his warm one and leading her out of the bar.

It’s like a game; usually to her it is a game, an exercise to find the solution, to crack the case and win.

Winning tonight is just a bit different.

They walk a few deserted blocks, Richard with his arm lazily across her shoulder. It alarms Riza how many times she stumbles. She’s…she’s drunk. That last drink put her over the edge, she realizes, she’s truly and actually drunk and that hasn’t happened for a while.

The realization sobers her a bit. She’s drunk, she’s abandoned her best friend to go home alone, and she’s walking to a hotel with a strange man, a very large strange man, she’s never met before. She’s angry and spiteful and hurt and drunk and it’s making her stupid.

Riza Hawkeye is not stupid.

Even for Elizabeth, this is a bad idea.

“I—Richard, I’m sorry,” She shouldn’t have to apologize, doesn’t have to apologize, but she will. She will, and then she will go home. “I need to go, I’m doing this for the wrong reasons. I need to get home to my friend--,”

“Ah, c’mon Elizabeth,” Richard says lightly, hand around her shoulders tightening, “She’ll understand. I saw you give her the keys, she’ll be fine. I know you want this.”

This man, this idiotic man trying to tell her what _she_ wants, trying to act like he knows one _thing_ about her.

Trying to steer her toward the mouth of the dark alley they’re about to pass.

“Well, I changed my mind. Let me go.” She says it quietly, attempting to pull away from him.

His large hands just grip tighter.

“I know you’ll like it,” he whispers, starting to pull her toward the alley.

And Riza Hawkeye attacks.

She lets her weight go dead, grabbing his hand to drag him down, making him fall to the side with the abrupt change in balance before stomping his foot, elbowing his gut, and shoving her palm up painfully under his nose.

When he crouches over in pain is when Riza goes for his crotch.

“You don’t know one fucking thing about me,” she growls at him, curled up in a ball on the dirty sidewalk.

“Who the hell _are_ you?” he whispers, eyes wide. Riza’s eyes go hard.

“I’m the person who’s going to shoot you in the dick if you ever try to do that to a woman again. No means no, asshole.” She says it coldly, before opening her purse and dropping a few coins on his still crumpled form.

“There. That’s for the drink, since you seem to think I owe you something.” Richard crabwalks back until he hits the wall, then stands up and runs, eyes wide with fear. Riza gives a disdainful snort and turns, prepared to let the bastard crawl shamefully back to his hotel and stalk home herself and file a report with the police when she sees a shadow at the end of the street.

Roy Mustang is standing not twenty feet away, gloved hand held out to snap and eyes wide with shock.

“Oh my fucking God, did you _follow_ me?” Riza asks sharply, rushing over to him, “Did you fucking follow me, Colonel? Oh my God. Oh my _God_.”

“Are you _drunk_ , Lieutenant?” he asks quietly, finally putting down his hand and grabbing hers, attempting to usher her away.

“Of course I’m drunk, it’s a Saturday, I’m off duty, am I not _allowed_ to be drunk? Now answer my fucking question!”

The colonel’s eyes widen, his mouth a hard line. “No, I wasn’t following you, I was in a bar with Maes down the road and I saw you pass when the door was opening. I just—I just wanted to be sure--,”

Riza’s stomach is lighting up with something she desperately wants to be hate, wants to be dread, anger, fear, anything really besides what she knows it truly is.

She also really, really wants to know why the hell Colonel’s at a bar with Maes Hughes when he had a date, a _third_ date, with Vanessa tonight, but even a drunk Riza has too much pride to ask.

“I can take care of myself, Colonel. I could kick your ass and wipe the floor with your face if I wanted to.” She says acerbically, wriggling her arm out of his grasp and turning the corner to finally leave stupid Richard and the stupid alley and stupid, _stupid_ Elizabeth behind and go home.

“I know,” the colonel whispers, stopping Riza in her tracks. She whips around to stare at him; he’s much closer than she realized.

“I know you don’t need anyone to take care of you.” Roy grabs her hand again and looks her hard in the eye. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

That stupid, wonderful, terrible thing lighting up her stomach:

It’s hope.

000

1909 - Hawkeye Estate

“You promised me,” she says quietly, gut roiling. “You promised you would do it, you said you’d get rid of it, nobody else can know--,” she says, talking faster and faster until—

“Riza, I could kill you. Do you get that? I could—I don’t know how to control it well enough, all I know how to do is kill, and you want me to—you could _die_ , Riza!” he shouts to her up the stairs.

“I don’t care!”

Silence.

“What?” he whispers, eyes dark.

“I can’t live with this, Roy, I can’t. Nobody else can know about it, nobody else can see this, it’s too dangerous.” _You’re too dangerous,_ she doesn’t say, but he knows. He always knows what she’s thinking. “Even if I killed myself, they could dig up my body and see it. Do you even realize how many people want to know? How many people, not just in the military, other countries, Roy, _everyone_ wants to figure out how you do it. It has to be destroyed, and if you won’t do it I’ll find a way myself. I will.”

It’s impossible not to hear the honesty ringing in her words. 

Roy drops his face into his hands.

They’re both on leave for the next month, before they’re expected to report to East City. They’ve both been promoted. And instead of visiting family, instead of celebrating with friends and getting drunk, or seeing that counsellor they both really should be paying a visit, they are here. At her house. At her father’s overgrown, crumbling estate. It’s ugly and dusty and far beyond abandoned.

It’s perfect.

Nobody will hear her scream.

She takes a hard seat on the once magnificent, now rotting staircase and shoves the heels of her hands into her eyes. She’s never been so angry with him before.

She’s never been so angry with herself before.

Riza shouldn’t have trusted him, not with this, she should have just kept it to herself and run away, hidden out until she found a solution, and not returned until it was all _gone_. But the problem is, it’s on her back. She literally, she just can’t reach it, she can’t see enough of it to guarantee that she’d get it. There’s no good way alone to solve her problem.

Plus, Roy fucking Mustang would never let her disappear. Not now. Not without telling him why.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and startles abruptly.

After Ishval, it’s surprising that anyone can sneak up on her like this. But, of course, Roy fucking Mustang can.

He squats on the stairs in front of her, hand still on her shoulder, dark eyes boring into her own. It should feel patronizing, but instead, God damn him, instead it just makes her feel safe.

Roy fucking Mustang.

“You don’t ever,” he growls, “Ever fucking talk, don’t even _think_ about killing yourself ever again. I don’t care about the context, you don’t think it and you sure as hell don’t ever try it. You promise me that, and I’ll do this.”

Riza should be mad at this. He already made his promise, how dare he take it back, add his own stipulations and conditions after the fact. She should be furious.

Instead she’s just relieved.

And ten minutes later, as she lists to the side of the tub of water, her frantic shrieks and wails still echoing throughout the bathroom, Roy’s voice in her ear begging her, “Riza, just pass out, oh my God, Riza, fuck, pass out, just _pass out_ —,” as he pours cool water down her naked, horribly burned back:

She’s just relieved.

000

1908 - Ishval

When Riza spots the Ishvalan sniper nested in the bell tower far across the square, readying to shoot the Flame Alchemist in cold blood, Riza doesn’t hesitate to take the shot.

It’s the first kill she doesn’t regret.

The man’s body tips over the edge and falls fifty feet down. Even from here, hundreds of yards away, Riza can see the blood beginning to spread.

She does her best not to puke.

Then she does puke, and goes down to meet her doom.

“You must be that cadet they’re all talking about. The Hawk’s eye, is it? Certainly an appropriate nickname,” the man takes a seat next to her later that night, shaking her hand. He’s a few years older than her, tall and dark haired. His glasses are reflecting the flames of the fire before them, but through the red Riza spies a pretty, distinctive green.

It makes her miss grass.

“Maes Hughes,” the man says, offering her a hand. She takes it. “I have to thank you, actually, my buddy Roy would be dead on the ground without you there today--,”

“God, Hughes, quit talking about me when I’m not there,” a voice grumbles from behind Hughes.

And then he’s there.

Two years gone have changed Roy Mustang, and not completely for the better. He taller, certainly, his hair longer than the last time she saw him. From what she can see beyond the baggy uniforms, he’s less lanky, more filled out and muscular.

But he’s still skinny, cheekbones hollowed, and dark circles under his eyes. His lips are horribly chapped, his pale skin tanned and burned, and his eyes….

His eyes look as dead as Riza feels.

She stands up to meet him. Riza should probably salute, that’s what they taught at the academy and Roy is a major now, after all. But Riza is also a sniper. And saluting an officer is a very easy way to make a valuable target known to the enemy.

So she stands and stares at him, and he stares at her, mouth dropping open in shock.

Then, he _glares_ , and drags her into the empty tent behind them

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” he asks her, voice a dry whisper through his cracked lips. Maes, trailing in, looks stunned.

“Doing my duty, Major Mustang, sir.” Roy stiffens. Because he’s _Roy_ , he’s _her_ Roy, and not using his name, using a new name, so different and formal feels like a betrayal of who is he to her, of what they mean to one another.

But to be here, to protect him (to protect _everyone_ ) she has to do this.

She absolutely hates it.

“You told me you were at school,” Roy says, his voice cracking, “You said you were in Central--,”

“I was, sir.” Riza can see Roy grinding his teeth.

“Well I wasn’t sending letters to the fucking military academy, I know that much.”

“I had them delivered to my friend Rebecca’s parent’s house. They live in Central.” He doesn’t bother to ask why. The both know why. If Roy Mustang knew Riza was at the academy, nothing would have kept him away, would have kept him from dragging her out and back home.

She wouldn’t be anywhere _near_ Ishval if Roy Mustang had any say.

“But you—you’re not old enough, Riza, you can’t be finished yet,” Roy says desperately, and Riza can almost see the cogs in his mind turning, trying to find the way, trying to find a loophole, a reason that proves this is simply a nightmare and _she isn’t there_.

“I’m not. They sent me out early since I’m a good shot.”

And Riza watches Roy regret every single time he took her to the backyard for target practice.

“You’re a _sniper_?” he asks, sounding horrified. Riza’s heart breaks in half.

She is horrifying. There’s no reason he should think any differently.

“One of the best,” Maes says softly from behind Roy, gently reminding them both he’s still there. “She saved your life today, Roy.”

“That was _you_. Fuck, Riza,” Roy puts a shaking hand over his face, “I didn’t, Riza, I didn’t tell you those things to try to convince you to join. I was, I don’t know, trying to justify it to myself. Make you proud? I don’t know. You—you shouldn’t be here, you’re not supposed to be here, you’re supposed to be in Central, safe, at school and happy and--,”

Roy has tears in his eyes.

Riza bites her tongue and tries desperately not to cry.

Soon enough she will tell him. She’ll tell him why she’s here. She’s given him power, so much power (maybe _too_ much power) and unchecked it is dangerous, and she is terrified. So she will watch his back, she’ll be his shadow, his eye in the sky. She will protect him, and she’ll protect the world from him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Riza says softly instead, bowing her head.

It’s silent for a moment.

“I missed you, Riza.”

And then, Riza just can’t help it, because he sounds so sad and broken and it’s Roy, her Roy, and he’s right there and she hasn’t seen him in two whole years, and letters from the front lines of Ishval haven’t gotten through for months and God, she’s missed him so much. She’s been fucking terrified and stressed, and now she’s in the war, too, and she’s a murderer and she’s killed so many people and everyone just keeps congratulating her and it’s sickening. It’s all sickening and she is horrified with the world and herself and she’s only eighteen and all she really wants is a hug.

So she takes one from Roy.

Riza pretends she doesn’t feel the teardrops landing on her head as Roy squeezes her so tight breathing becomes difficult.

“You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this,” Roy whispers into her hair, as Maes slips out of the tent. Riza can see his feet on the other side, guarding the flap.

She’s glad Roy found at least one good friend here.

“Neither should you. But it’s too late for that,” she says into his shoulder, and Roy’s breath catches.

“I’m so sorry, Riza. I’m sorry, I—I, I’m sorry, I’ve just, I’m--,” what is he sorry for? For her being here? For her new death count? For the warped way he’s now put her father’s years of alchemic study to work?

For the lives he’s taken and the pain he’s caused?

Well, she’s got no right to be his confessor for that.

Riza looks up, and raises a hand to cup his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

“For better or worse, remember?” Riza says quietly. “Th-this will be our worst. But we’ll make it better. We will. We have to. Right?”

Her question is small and soft, feebly spoken, because she doesn’t know the answer, doesn’t know if ever they can make anything about this, about Ishval or their lives or their consciences right again.

She doesn’t even know if they’ll make it through tomorrow.

But Roy grins. It’s slight, and horribly sad, but he does grin and pulls her back into a hug.

“Yeah, we will. For better or worse. We can do this.”

000

1903 - Hawkeye Estate

“You’re such a prissy little city boy,” Riza teases as she helps Roy get the fish off the hook.

“Those stupid fins cut me! Look, look at it Riza, I’m bleeding. I’m going to die of some horrible tragic fish disease and it’s all your fault,” Roy whines, holding a rag to the cut on his hand.

“A drama queen, too,” Riza mutters. “You should be happy, you caught your first fish!” Riza cries, trying to distract the boy from the trace amounts of blood on his hands.

“It doesn’t seem worth it,” Roy sniffs as he watches Riza pulls the fish off the hook and throw it into the bucket.

“You won’t be saying that after you eat the fish I cook,” Riza says with a grin, but Roy doesn’t return it. He’s looking at her oddly, head titled, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“I’m done with fishing, let’s go sit.” Roy says simply, dropping his rod and grabbing her hand, dragging her to the edge of the little dock to plop down and let their bare feet swing over the edge. His legs are much longer than hers, but he is three years older, so she supposes its fair, for now.

“Where’d you learn to do all this, Riza?” Roy asks quietly, staring out across the lake.

“What, you mean fishing? Cooking the fish?”

“All of it.”

“Well, I found the recipes for the fish in mother’s old cookbook, but Dad, he’s the one who taught me to fish, who taught be to clean them, that’s really gross, you won’t like that part, Roy, but it’s not too hard and--,”

“Does your father fish with you often?” Roy asks softly, eyes sad like he already knows the answer.

Well, he does already know the answer. So why the hell is he asking Riza such a painful question?

“You know he doesn’t, don’t be stupid,” Riza says heatedly, “He’s got time for nothing but alchemy, hasn’t had time for anything but that since Mother died. Don’t be mean.”

Roy looks stricken. “Riza, I didn’t, I just wanted to know--,”

“You knew what the answer would be. You know him. You know him better than I do, probably.” Riza scoffs. Roy doesn’t deny it.

“You deserve better than him. He shouldn’t treat you the way he does. You do all these things for him and he doesn’t even notice. He’s your dad, he shouldn’t be like this. It’s wrong, Riza. It’s not equivalent.”

For some reason, the statements make her face blush and fill her with shame, and she looks hurriedly away from Roy, toward the forest. It’s not her fault, she knows it’s not her fault, and Dad should treat her better, he should do more, she shouldn’t have to do all the cooking and cleaning and shopping, shouldn’t have to teach herself, and get herself to school every day unprompted and make sure she washes behind her ears.

He should do those things. He should tell her those things.

He should care.

But he doesn’t. And now Roy Mustang pities her.

And that’s it, isn’t it. The pity. She sees it sometimes in the village, at the market, at the flower stand before she goes to the cemetery, at school when teacher sees her walk in late. They pity her because she is a nuisance in her home, unwelcomed and unloved because she looks like a ghost, a thirteen year old version of the person her father would give anything to have back.

“He just misses her,” Riza argues, the old excuse she’ll always have to fall back. “He’s never been the same since Mother died, he loved her so much. And I don’t think equivalent exchange really works with love, Roy.” Riza sees Roy turn sharply to stare at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Why’s that?”

“Because--,” Riza begins softly, looking back at the lake, “Because equivalent would be each person giving half their heart, half their lives, right? They have an agreement and they turn it into something new, something they both have. But, sometimes, I think, when people love each other a whole lot, they just—they just give their heart away. It’s not like they have a choice. And if they’re lucky, the person they love will give them their whole heart in return. It looks like equivalent exchange on the surface but….I don’t know, nothing really changes besides the person who holds the heart. Love is love, and love’s supposed to be infinite, but when the person you’ve given your whole heart to dies, don’t….don’t you die, too?”

Roy wraps his arm around Riza’s shoulder and pulls her in to his side.

“Maybe so,” Roy says, and he sounds a bit like he’s catching a cold, “But, you know, love’s the only thing in the world capable of perfect human transmutation.” Riza looks up, confused, and Roy grins softly. “I don’t know if you’ve had the other ‘how babies are made’ talk, Riza, and I’m certainly not giving you that one,” Riza blushes, and Roy laughs a little, “but parents and kids, that love….Riza, your mother and her love, it will never die as long as you’re here, and the fact that your father can’t see it proves just how foolish he is.”

Riza glances around quickly, terrified that Dad will pop out, running and screaming at Roy to get off his property and never return because he’s such a disrespectful pupil; Riza wouldn’t be able to bear that.

Roy grips her tighter, because he know exactly what she was doing, who she was looking for. He always knows.

“Hey, Riza?” he says softly, looking down at her. She turns up to meet his gaze.

“I love you.” There’s a blush on his cheeks when he says it, but his voice is strong like he’s simply stating a fact.

Riza wants to cry, and opens her mouth to contradict because, no, he doesn’t, he’ll pretend to love her because her father doesn’t, he just pities her, he’s—

“I’m not just saying it,” he says fiercely, because he knows her. He knows what she was going to say before she even finished the thought herself. “I’m not. You’re so important, and good and talented, Riza, you are, and you’re my favorite person in the world, my best friend, you’re--,”

He doesn’t continue, but Riza knows. Because Riza knows him too, knows this boy who has been her older brother and best friend, her protector and this….fact. A fact in her life. Roy Mustang is important. Like the sky being blue and the grass being green, Roy Mustang is important, and a life without Roy in it hardly seems like a life at all. He’s a promise.

Riza remembers a story her mother told her once, about the earliest human beings. They were said to have two faces, and four arms and four legs. But the gods up in the heavens thought the beings too powerful and split them in half. And humans today, they all ended up divided, all continuously searching for that other half they were separated from eons ago.

“ _They’re called your twin flame. And, my dearest Riza, if you’re lucky, you’ll find them. You’ll find your opposite and equal in life, that person whose fire in the soul matches yours.”_

_“But how do I know if I’ve found them?”_

_“Oh, sweetheart, trust me, you’ll know. They’ll just, they’ll make your heart sing, Riza. And for better or worse, don’t ever let them go.”_

Riza sniffles, and runs a hand across her wet cheeks. “You won’t leave, right? You won’t—you won’t leave?” she doesn’t mean physically leave, she knows that someday Roy will finish his learning. Someday he’ll be an adult, and have to go out in the real world and get a job and finally leave this house and these happy days out in the sun and be away from Riza.

But Roy Mustang knows what she means. He understands her like nobody else in the world.

“You’re stuck with me, Riza.”

“For better or worse?” She asks quietly, and he grins.

“And for richer or poorer? In sickness and in health? You want me to go through them all, we’re a bit young for this, kiddo.” Riza flushes happily. She always likes it when he calls her kiddo.

“No, I didn’t mean all that, just the ‘for better or worse’. You promise you won’t leave, for better or worse, Roy?”

His face sobers, and he grabs her hand.

“I promise.”

And Riza’s heart keeps on singing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the twin flames thing, it's an actual thing, I didn't just make it up. I think it comes from Plato???? Now that I think about it, I kind of vaguely recall it from an intro philo class. Idk, I saw it online while I was looking something else up and this story was in the back of my head anyway and I knew I had to add it, because obviously Roy and Riza aren't just soulmates, they're like uber soulmates, because the fire within their souls is the same. Like, that's literally the boiled down definition of twin flames and if that's not perfect for them I really don't know what is.


	2. I will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Riza become parents. The process is just as conventional as the rest of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So in my head, and I think it’s technically canon, too, though I’ve only ever watched FMAB, Mustang and Hawkeye obviously get married because reasons. And in my head, I picture them being these very happy dog parents, who completely dote on Ed and Al and their families, but who never end up having children of their own because, again, reasons. 
> 
> But then, I started thinking about how Roy and Riza would become parents, like actual legal parents, not just ‘wow, you need help so I’m going to enlist you and begrudgingly grow to care about and love you’ surrogate parents. Because it wouldn’t be by conventional means; nothing about their life is conventional. 
> 
> And I arrived at this. People probably seem out of character because they are, but this is a few years in the future so I’m calling change and growth again, I guess? Idk, children change people. Just hope you like it.

1923 - East City

“Roy, we have to go. You’re being ridiculous, we’ve just helped them get the funds to renovate their garden, and they want to say thank you. Do you realize how very horrible we’d be if we didn’t go?” Riza says heatedly, shrugging out of her blue coat and moving to take out her earrings.

“You did, Riza, you, not us. Not the whole team, and especially not me. I’m not going to go take credit for this wonderful thing you’ve done,” Roy harrumphs, shrugging out of his own coat and going to unloop his belt.

Riza sighs. “Well, does the fact that I want you to come with me count for anything? Because I do, I want you to come. I don’t care if you get the credit, you know I did it in your name.” Riza finishes undressing, turning to the dresser to pull out her pajamas, giving Roy a head-on view of the shiny scars marring her back.

Roy bites his lip. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go. But just a quick in-and-out, and when people ask I’m saying it was all you.”

Riza smiles, and pulls back the covers to get into their bed. He thinks about the ugly scars now covered by her pajamas; Roy’s never been very good at denying his wife what she wants.

000

The East City Children’s Home pulls out all the stops for the arrival of General Mustang and Lt. Colonel Hawkeye. When their car arrives, the children are already lining the drive, all dressed in the neatly pressed navy blue uniforms of the home. The black patent leather shoes shine in the sunlight of the afternoon, and all of the girls have pretty ribbons in their hair.

Roy gulps, and Riza pats his knee before getting out of the car with a beautiful grin on her face.

Riza is a natural at this, Roy can’t help but think, watching her speak to the children, shake hands and give hugs, receive flowers and laugh at their cute quips and anecdotes. Of the two of them, she honestly should be the politician. When she tries, she’s such a people person, so kind and thoughtful, actively listening and caring about what others have to say.

But then again, it’s rather difficult to be a politician when you care more for all the individuals instead of the whole.

Roy does his best, shaking the kids’ hands, shooting grins at awestruck little boys and gently setting the story straight when the children thank him for their new garden. He and Riza are in civilian clothes today; they don’t want to intimidate the children. Roy loves watching his wife’s long hair blow lightly in the wind.

It’s going well, all things considered, Roy’s doing okay, and maybe, dare he say it, is actually enjoying himself. He’s almost to the end of the lineup, about to meet with home’s director and probably go inside for tea when he sees her.

She is tiny, no more than five, with white hair held back in two neat braids; the red ribbons at the ends match the ruby-red of her eyes. She’s settled in a wheelchair, and for the first time Roy notices the single patent leather shoe shining in the foot well of the chair; she’s missing her left leg.

For a moment, Roy isn’t able to catch his breath; oh God, God has he hurt this child? Has he somehow sentenced this tiny little baby to a life as cripple through his past atrocities?

He looks at her face; her gap-tooth grin is so wide it’s making her red eyes squint.

Oh, God.

He turns to look at Riza, who is behind him in the lineup, giving a little toddler boy a hug. Over his shoulder she shoots him a concerned glance.

 _“Breathe.”_ She mouths to him. And he does, he takes a breath before turning to smile back at this angelic Ishvalan girl.

She is young. She’s too young to have been in Ishval at all during the war, she wasn’t even near being born yet. He didn’t hurt her. He didn’t kill her parents.

But she is here. So someone _has_ hurt both her and her family.

Roy intends to find out who.

“Hi, Mr. General Mustang, Sir!” the girl says happily, sticking out her small, tanned hand. “Thank you for our garden! It’s real pretty. I like goin’ out by the duck pond best, Dr. Adler lets me go practice my crutches there ‘cause the grass is soft, and me and Shireen, sometimes we go feed the duckies stale bread Cook give us from the kitchen. It’s so nice….”

Roy is going to _murder_ whoever hurt this little girl.

“Oh no, don’t thank me, thank the Lt. Colonel, she did all the hard work. But I’m very glad you enjoy the garden, it looks beautiful.” And it does, the grounds of the home are beautiful, filled with new walking paths and benches, low-hanging trees and every colored flower one could imagine.

And, of course, the girl’s “ducky” pond, with a charming fence surrounding it to keep the children safe and a pretty bridge connecting the outer edges of the pond to a tiny island with a willow in the center.

“What’s your name?” Roy asks finally. The little girl beams.

“I’m Nijah! Mama said it means beautiful rose, because I was her favorite flower.”

It’s like the kid is trying to kill him.

“Well, that’s the only appropriate name for a beautiful rose such as yourself,” Roy says with a smile, and Nijah’s face turns as red as her eyes.

The child next to Nijah lets out a loud snort.

“Sissy!” Nijah gasps, looking up at the girl, scandalized. And indeed, Roy doesn’t know how he missed her, the girl next to Nijah can be nothing but her sister. This Nijah is two or three years older, by Roy’s guess, standing beside her sister on both legs, gripping the back of Nijah’s wheelchair with a  white-knuckled hand.

She looks just like Nijah, of course same hair and eye color, but something about the shape of her eyes, the upturn of her nose, the fullness of her lips makes it easy to realize that they must be related. The only difference really, besides age and the leg, is an unfortunate scar running down the left side of the girl’s face, nearly intersecting her eye and reaching to the corner of her mouth.

That, and the prominent scowl on her face.

“It’s rude to stare, Mister,” the girl growls, and Roy realizes, yes, he has been staring at her, probably with a shocked look on his face if his feelings are anything to go by.

“Shireen!” Nijah gasps again. Ah, so this is the famed Shireen of the ducky pond. Makes sense.

“No, Nijah, she’s right. I’m very sorry for staring, Ms. Shireen. It was unconscionable of me.” Shireen rolls her eyes.

“Well, Sissy’s sorry, too. Ms. Marilyn asked her to be on her bestest behavior today, and she _promised._ ” Nijah glares at her sister.

It’s about the cutest thing Roy Mustang has ever seen.

Shireen harrumphs. “Fine, fine, I’m sorry for being rude, Mr. Stupid General, sir.” Nijah hides her face in her hands.

Roy grins.  

000

“I don’t know how we can ever begin to thank you for your generosity, Sirs,” the director, Marilyn Ascot, says reverently. “It’s just brightened everything here so much. The children adore it, the teachers and nurses are over the moon--,”

“Really, Ms. Ascot, we just filled out the paperwork and approved the funding. It was no trouble,” Riza interrupts kindly.

Roy, however, knows that it was a shitload of trouble, knows that Riza spent months in meetings, fighting with the higher ups, even imploring her grandfather to find the money for the East City Children’s home. After her visit to one of the newly orphaned boys during the investigation of his father’s murder, Riza had been single-minded in her quest to buy the home the neighboring plots of land and get them all the flowers she could find.

“Well, please know that it is much appreciated,” Ms. Ascot says, wiping her eyes with a hankie.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, sipping their tea and admiring the garden from the window when:

“I was wondering, it’s no trouble, if you can’t tell us I understand, but I was wondering what happened to Nijah and Shireen,” Roy says quietly, and Ms. Ascot frowns sadly.

“Ah, yes the Khadem sisters. They’ve been with us a few months now. Their father was a teenager during the war, came to Amerstris with his father when his mother died, along with his fiancé. They opened that rather popular restaurant on the west side of the city, do you remember Zahra?”

Roy and Riza both nod. They’d been sad when the little sandwich shop had shut down last year; it was within walking distance of the office, and everyone had been puzzled when the place closed shop rather abruptly. It certainly got enough business, packed the gills every lunch hour.

“The family was in a car accident; parents died on impact. Little Nijah had to have her leg amputated afterward to avoid infection. I’m told Shireen got her scar dragging her sister out of the wreckage. They were both in the hospital for a few months recovering, and after they were sent here.”

“Their grandfather…?” Riza asks quietly.

“He died of illness the year before. All those girls have is each other.”

Roy can’t help but think he’s heard this story before.

000

Ms. Marilyn takes Roy and Riza on tour of the grounds. They stop often, making daisy chains with the ten-year-olds sitting under the trees, playing catch with little boys, kicking balls around the yard and using the benches as bases for a game of freeze tag.

Roy hasn’t felt this light in years.

Toward the end of the afternoon, as Roy and Riza are making their way back to the home, they spy Nijah at the duck pond, balancing on tiny crutches and making her way slowly towards a young man who must be Dr. Adler.

“Mr. General Mustang!” Nijah shout happily to them, raising a crutch to wave and promptly falling to the ground. Roy, Riza and Dr. Adler all rush to the little girl, but Shireen gets there first, abandoning her book underneath the willow tree and scrambling across the bridge to reach her sister.

“Nijah! Are you alright, are you hurt, how’s your thigh, are the braces too tight? I knew you shouldn’t practice today, you’re too tired, you didn’t get enough sleep last night--,”

“Sissy, stop.” Nijah says petulantly. The girl sounds exasperated, but Roy can also see the shine of tears in her ruby eyes. The fall did hurt.

But Nijah wants to keep moving.

“Sissy, I’m not tired. If you keep stopping me I’ll never learn and I’ll be stuck in that chair forever. Go read your book, Dr. Adler helps me with this, we already decided.”

Roy can see Shireen grinding her teeth.

“Fine. But only ten more minutes today, you’ve been at this long enough.” Nijah nods, and watches Shireen return to her place beneath the willow before turning to the adults.

“Hi,” she says sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I just got excited to see you Mr. General Mustang, Sir, and sometimes I forget about the crutches.”

Damn, this kid.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Riza says hurriedly, crouching down to the little girl’s level. “Just keep practicing and you’ll get it. I’ve been watching you for a while, you’re really very good.” Nijah beams.

“Thank you, Ms. Lt. Colonel Hawkeye!” Roy rolls his eyes fondly.

“Nijah, just call us Roy and Riza. We don’t need that mouthful every time you talk to us.” Nijah’s eyes widen in shock.

“Really?”

“Really,” Riza says sweetly, helping Nijah straighten her dress and fixing one of her ribbons. “May I help you practice, Nijah?”

Nijah shows off her toothless grin again, “I’d like that very much, Ms. Lieu—Riza. Ms. Riza.”

Roy cherishes Riza’s happy grin before turning to the little island and the little girl underneath the willow.

Shireen’s hurt gaze meets Roy’s, before she hastily turns her eyes back to the book.

Shireen doesn’t look up when Roy settles himself beside her under the tree, pretending to be engrossed in the large tome in her hands. She’s not reading, though, her eyes aren’t moving. It’s all a front as Shireen keeps her ears open, listening to her sister’s practice.

“She’ll be fine, you know,” Roy says softly, watching his wife settle Nijah back into her crutches. “Children are resilient and your sister in particular seems very strong. She’ll keep moving forward. She’s got fire in her eyes.”

Shireen snorts. “I don’t like fire much,” She says snidely. “It’s what killed my grandmother. It destroyed our family’s home.”

Roy would rather be punched in the gut. Because these words, they make him feel just as though he has been, without the relief of the physical pain he’s so earned.

Roy turns to see Shireen’s red eyes boring into his. If Nijah has fire in her eyes, Shireen’s are slow-burning, unbearably hot coals.

Roy swallows thickly.

“What would you like me to do, Ms. Shireen?” Roy whispers, not breaking eye contact with the child. “I’ve been trying for years to find absolution for what I did in Ishval. I thought the reconstruction efforts would help, but you and Nijah are simply proof the repercussions of my misdeeds will never cease. What do you want from me, Ms. Shireen? Ask me anything, and I’ll do my best to see it through.”

Shireen looks shocked, and there are tears welling in her eyes. And really, who does Roy think he is? Who the hell is he to ask this of an eight-year-old? What the fuck is he doing, what is he saying, how—

“Shireen!” a voice shouts happily from across the pond. “Shireen look! Look how far I made it today!” Nijah is waving a crutch from where she’s settled in Dr. Adler’s arms from far down the pond, absolutely beaming.

Then Shireen’s eyes well with tears for a different reason.

“That’s wonderful, Sissy! You—good job today, Nijah!” Shireen yells across the pond, voice thick. She turns back to Roy, eyes bright. “I—I’ll let you know, General,” she says to him softly.

“Roy,” he responds. “Call me Roy.”

000

Roy and Riza never really discuss it, but they both, together and apart, continue to visit the Children’s Home. At least once a week they’re there, reading books, helping with homework, serving dinner or playing games. Their lives are busy, they really don’t have the time, but visiting the children, playing games, helping them—

It’s cathartic.

And every visit, in some way or another, seems to end with the Khadem sisters.

Riza becomes heavily invested in Nijah’s rehabilitation, reading books, speaking with fitness instructors at the base about strengthening exercises, and talking to doctors about the possibility of prosthesis for her. She works with Dr. Adler, coaching Nijah through practices and helping with her stretches. When Nijah starts working more on her core and balance, Riza brings Black Hayate along and teaches Nijah to throw and play fetch.

When she hears Shireen lamenting her scar one day, Riza goes to the store, finds foundation and powder and cover-up in Shireen’s shade, and brings along her new haul of makeup the next visit to teach Shireen how to hide her scar.

“But, sweetheart, just know you don’t have to,” Roy hears Riza murmur to Shireen through the bathroom door. “You don’t have to cover it. You’re beautiful, Shireen. Scars are just stories in our lives, and only those who matter to us most get to know them.”

“Mr. Roy, why are you sad? You’re crying.” Nijah observes softly, looking up from the game chess that Roy has been teaching her to play.

(“The king looks real strong and pretty Mr. Roy, but he can’t do nothin’! The queen’s the best one. It doesn’t seem fair everybody has to die if the stupid king gets caught.”

“You’re a natural, Nijah.”)

“It’s just dust, sweetheart. Just some dust.”

After a hesitant confession of her interest in alchemy, Shireen is bombarded by reference materials from Roy. He sends her books, articles, magazines, his first alchemy notes, anything and everything that might sate her interest.

It’s always worth it to see Shireen lips twist up in a hesitant grin.

000

Shireen still doesn’t like Roy.

Pretty much hates him, to be honest. Sure, the girl will accept alchemy notes and gifts, will hug his wife and allow him play with her sister. She will tolerate his presence because she likes and respects Riza and she knows that Nijah, for some unfathomable reason, really likes him.

Shireen still hates Roy.

It’s evident in her snide remarks about fire and Ishval and her family, in the glares she sends his way when she thinks no one in watching. In the way she calls him nothing but ‘Mr. Stupid General, sir’ no matter how many times Nijah glares at Shireen and apologizes for her.

Roy doesn’t mind.

He deserves it.

And anyway, he’s got plenty of practice with overprotective older siblings who already know what a bastard he is.

000

“Where’s Shireen today, Nijah?” Riza asks after they arrive. Nijah sweet little face pulls into a frown.

“She’s in the infirmary with Dr. Adler,” Nijah says sadly, “Sissy is sick.”

“Oh, what’s the matter with her? Has she caught that flu going around?” Roy asks. Nijah shakes her head.

“I don’t, I’m not very sure. Sissy just—everybody always thinks I got hurt worst in the accident, but Sissy got cut up real bad, and there’s lots of things wrong in her tummy. She gets sick real easy.” Nijah’s eyes well up with tears. “And she won’t tell me when her tummy hurts because she doesn’t want to scare me, but it scares me more that she won’t tell me, I don’t want her to get too sick. And Dr. Adler and Ms. Marilyn and the nurses, they care lots and they try to always watch her, but there are whole bunches of kids here to watch still and--,”

“Nijah, sweetheart, deep breaths,” Riza says, crouching down by Nijah’s chair and putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t want her to leave me, too, Ms. Riza!” Nijah wails, tears dripping out of her ruby eyes. As Riza pulls the child into a hug, Roy slips away down the hall.

Nijah will be fine, she has Riza. And it’s not too far a walk to the infirmary.

000

Roy finds Shireen in a tiny cot by the window, curled up in a ball. There’s a hastily cleaned red bucket sitting next to the bed.

“Hello, General Mustang,” Dr. Adler greets him, wincing as the door to his tiny office creaks when he shuts it.

“How is she?” Roy asks. Dr. Adler offers a soft smile, looking back at the sleeping Shireen.

“Better now. Still has a bit of a fever and nausea, but she should be fine in a few days. Shireen’s had a rough night, unfortunately. She’s exhausted.”

Roy grimaces at the thought.

“Is it alright if I sit with her for a while?”

“That would be great, actually, if you don’t mind me stepping out to get some food. I was about to run and get one of the nurses quickly, but as long as you’re here to watch she’ll be fine.”

Roy tries not to let it show, how ironic he finds it that this kind doctor trusts _him_ to be left alone with an Ishvalan child. Instead he nods, and drags a chair over to Shireen’s bedside.

Her eyes are closed, so Roy does his best to stay quiet. He picks up one of the novels someone must have dropped for her on the bedside table and reads uncomprehendingly for a few minutes.

“Bucket.” Shireen rasps.

Roy is rather proud of how quickly he reacts. All of the vomit ends up in the red bucket.

He helps Shireen sit up, rubs her back and swipes the whites straggles of hair that have fallen out of her braid away from her face and mouth.

Once she’s finished being sick, he cleans the bucket in the sink and comes back with a glass of water. Shireen takes tiny sips from the glass; Roy has to physically hold himself back from reaching to steady her shaking hand, from resting his palm against her forehead to feel for fever.

“Feeling better?”

Shireen glares at him. If she were older, he knows she’d be telling him to fuck off.

And Roy gets it, he does. Shireen is a person who simply doesn’t like being fussed over. She doesn’t think she needs it (doesn’t think she _deserves_ it for some unfathomable reason), and all the people whose fussing she would tolerate, the people she’d like with her now the most, rubbing her back, tucking her in and feeling for fever, they’re all dead.

And Shireen is stuck with Roy.

He gets it. Better than even she knows.

“My parents died when I was five.”

Roy doesn’t know why he says he, cannot understand what brought the words to his mouth, but once they’re out they feel right. Shireen needs to know this, needs to hear that she’s not the only one.

She’s not alone.

“It was a house fire, if you can believe it. I don’t remember what started it anymore, I just remember my mother grabbing me out of bed and running. She threw me out of her arms before a beam could fall on top of both of us. It still hit me, but I wasn’t pinned like her. I was able to crawl away, and Dad found me and got me out of the house.

“Then he went back to try and save Mom and, well--,” Roy coughs. “Neither of them made it back out.”

Shireen is staring at him with a blank expression. Her eyes though, her eyes are blazing.

“I spent about a month here, at the Children’s home after the fire. Well,” Roy amends, “I spent a couple weeks in the hospital first, but then here. I don’t remember much of it honestly, I was young and traumatized, I suppose. I think people were nice, but I was pretty lonely and I was stuck in a wheelchair most of the time since I had some bad burns on my legs. I’ve still got some pretty wicked scars from them up my calves and behind my knees.

“And then, one day, completely out of the blue, some woman shows up here, says she my aunt from Central, my dad’s estranged sister. Has the paperwork finished and all the correct IDs, says she’s taking me home with her. I’d never seen her before in my life.

“And this stranger who sort of kind of looked like me and Dad, who acted absolutely nothing like Mom, was suddenly there _all the time_. Making me eat, even when I wasn’t hungry, changing my bandages and giving me my medicine. Taking me to the hospital when I got an infection. Holding me tight every time I cried.

“And I was so angry at her, I _hated_ her because I didn’t want her. I didn’t want any of those people who tried to help me at all. I wanted Mom and Dad and our house in East City with the green shutters and my dog Lucky and all my old toys and books that were turned to ash in the fire.

“But I _needed_ Aunt Chris. I needed those doctors and nurses and the people from the home. There’s sometimes a vast difference between what we want and what we end up with in life. But, when the burns stopped hurting so much, when I was able to get up and walk again and sleep through the night without dreaming of fire, I suppose that’s when I learned as long as we have what we need, well, things seem to work out in the end. Even if it’s not the way we once expected.”

Shireen is silent, her face a contemplative mask.

“Can I see your scars?”

000

“Riza, we have to talk about this.”

“I know.”

“I just—what the hell do we do? What do we do? Would we even be allowed? And then, God, the stupid speculation, people could all think it’s just some sick ploy by me to get ahead. We can’t do that to them. But, Riza, we—I, we have to do something, we can’t go on like this forever, and if—if somebody else did it first, I don’t think I could bear it, or, God, what if Shireen gets sick again and--,”

“Sir, stop.” Riza only calls him sir outside work now when she’s very, very serious. Roy shuts up immediately.

“I’ve—I should’ve talked to you about it, but I have been speaking about the process to Marilyn.” Of course Riza, his Riza, always ten steps ahead, has already reached the epiphany he’s just had.

“Legally there’s nothing hindering us. If they had blood-relatives there’d be possible problems, but there are none. The problem we might face, it’s not necessarily legal, but the home--,”

“What?”

“We have to ask them, Roy. We can’t just take them home with us without saying anything first. We need to get their permission.”

It makes sense, honestly it does. Technically they are strangers, the worst kind of strangers, really, and they shouldn’t have the right to simply take the kids of people they made refugees home on a whim.

And Nijah, sweet little Nijah, for as nice as the home and the people are, probably would’ve jumped in their car that first day if they asked. Now, she stands on the porch with her crutches every time they leave, smile on her face, but tears in her eyes.

Nijah will say yes.

But only if Shireen does.

Because for every smile from Shireen, there are twice as many frowns. Twice as many scowls. Shireen is older, and harder, and she’s young but she _knows_. She understands who Mr. Roy and Ms. Riza used to be before they started building parks and playing with orphans. She knows what they’ve done, and maybe she will let them play with her sister, maybe she will talk to them and accept their gifts, but there’s a pretty enormous rift between keeping a new book and going home with your people’s sworn enemies to call them Mom and Dad.

“Do you think she’ll say yes?” Roy asks quietly.

Riza silence says everything.

000

But asking the Khadems, for better or worse, is put on hold by the arrival of the Elric family in East City. Winry had been asked by a rather wealthy old man to perform his automail surgery in East City, as opposed to trekking out to Resembool. Winry and Ed decide, of course, that it is a perfect time for a family vacation, and show up on the Mustangs’ doorstep unannounced.

“Edward, you told me you asked them! You idiot, we’re not freeloaders, we’re getting a hotel!”

“Damn, Winry, stop hitting me, I’m gonna drop the kid! And no, I didn’t ask per se, but Hawkeye said we’re always welcome, any time, so I just figured…” Ed trails off, gold eyes big and wide, staring at Riza and Roy, his little daughter Nina cuddled in his arms.

“Of course you are, you’re always welcome, it’ll just be a few minutes to get the guest rooms ready--,”

“No, Riza, don’t be ridiculous, Ed’s being an ass, I’m so embarrassed, I thought he talked to you, but apparently not because I’ve married an _idiot_ \--,”

“Mama, that’s bad words,” Ben says tiredly, raising his head from his mother’s shoulder, golden eyes wide.

“Yes sweetie, it is, that’s just how mad I am at Daddy right now. Doesn’t mean you get to use them, okay?”

“Okay, Mama.” Ben responds, laying his head back down. “Hiya, Uncle Roy.”

“Hi, Ben,” Roy says softly, heart clenching. God, how the hell did _Fullmetal_ end up with such sweet kids? “Just come inside, you know we’re not going to let you leave now.”

And that is that.

000

“So, Mustang, word on the street is you’re a humanitarian now,” Edward says idly, stirring his whiskey around the glass and staring into the fire. Riza, Winry, and the children are already asleep, leaving Ed and Roy to their own devices.

Roy’s not sure it’s such a good idea.

“Whatever do you mean, Fullmetal?”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t play dumb, Colonel. Everybody in the East knows you and Hawkeye are at the Children’s Home every other day.”

“It’s General now.” Ed smirks.

“Well, if we’re going by technicalities, you really shouldn’t call me Fullmetal since I can’t do alchemy anymore but—here we are.” Ed shrugs, then his face turns serious. “What’s going on, Roy? I know it’s not some publicity stunt, it’s been months since that garden was finished.”

Roy scowls. “So I’m not allowed to do something nice for others, simply because it makes me feel good? That’s not a good enough reason?”

Ed looks stricken. “I—no, of course not, that’s, of course you can. I’m sorry—I just, I kinda figured you and Hawkeye were considering adoption.”

Edward’s always been too clever for his own good.

Ed must find the answer to his question in Roy’s gaze, because he smirks again.

“Who’s the kid?”

“Kids.” Roy says quietly, and Edward whistles. “Two sisters. But it’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Roy sighs. “They’re Ishvalan, Edward.”

“Ok, yeah, maybe it is.”

000

The next day, Winry and Riza take the children shopping. Edward asks Roy to take him to the Children’s home.

“Oh, c’mon, I wanna meet them. Please, please, pleasepleaseplease--,”

“God, Fullmetal I think they’re already more mature than you, and Nijah’s only five.”

Fullmetal just grins.

000

Edward thoroughly enjoys his visit to the home. The craft for the day is building kites, and Fullmetal goes around, bouncing from kid to kid, helping construct the tails, giving ideas for the colors and designs on the kite, and discussing headwinds and air resistance in terms the children understand.

Edward is a good teacher.

Edward is a good _father_.

Roy’s always known it, but seeing him not just with his own children, but these orphans, seeing how willingly and happily and well he plays with them and helps them, it makes something in Roy’s heart ache in the best way. He doesn’t know the last time he’s been so proud.

Not that Roy can take any credit, of course.

“Is that them?” Edward asks Roy quietly, after handing the kite he’d finally gotten in the air back to little Lucy, “On the bench?”

Roy nods, and they make their way over to the Khadems. Shireen is settled on the bench, reading aloud out of a book of fairy tales. Nijah’s chair is rolled up right next to her. The day is slightly cool, but Nijah is completely bundled up, leg covered with a blanket and body wrapped in an oversized coat to cover her uniform.

“Mr. Roy! Mr. Roy, you’re back!” Nijah squeals, rushing to unlock her chair and roll forward, but Shireen stops her, rolling her eyes fondly.

“Nijah, he’s coming _to_ us, you don’t have to move.”

Edward snorts. “I like this kid.”

“Yeah I thought you might,” Roy says with a grin, before approaching the girls. “Hi Nijah, Hi Shireen.”

“Mr. Roy!” Nijah shouts, raising her hands to him. He picks her up and settles her on his hip before sitting next to Shireen on the bench.

“Nijah, your blanket,” Shireen sighs, looking at the quilt which Ed picks up from the ground and folds neatly on the chair.

“Sissy, Dr. Adler says it’s just a _little_ cold. You worry too, too, _too_ much!”

“Nijah--,”

“This is my friend, Edward,” Roy interrupts, unwilling to listen to a fight. “He and his family are from Resembool, and they’re in town for a few days visiting.”

“Oooohh, Hi Mr. Edward. Is Resembool out in the country? Are there sheep, I like sheep. What about mountains, mountains are soooo pretty, Ms. Riza says when I get a pros—a prosth—a fake leg, then maybe I can go on _hikes_ and I wanna hike a mountain, Mr. Edward, do you know any good mountains--?”

“Edward Elric?” Shireen asks quietly, interrupting Nijah’s adorable rambles as she takes in Fullmetal’s appearance. Edward, smiling widely at Nijah, simply nods.

Shireen gasps. “Seriously? You, you’re the Fullmetal Alchemist? You _know_ the Fullmetal Alchemist?” she asks incredulously, turning to Roy.

“Whoa, really?” Nijah squeals, “That’s the best radio serial ever, we listen every night! I thought it was all made up, like a fairy tale. You’re real? You’re a superhero!” Nijah says, looking up at Ed.

Ed looks gobsmacked.

Then he holds up a hand to Roy, a silent gesture to wait, and grins manically. “I just—I need to take a minute to savor this. Wow, this is just beautiful. Yeah, after my wedding and the births of my children and Al getting his body back; yeah after those this is the best day of my life.”

“Fullmetal,” Roy sighs, shaking his head.

“Oh,” Nijah says sadly. “Mr. Ed you spoiled it. I didn’t know Alphonse got his body back. I mean, I’m real happy, Alphonse is my favorite, but the serial’s such fun to listen to and--,”

Edward scoops Nijah out of Roy’s lap and twirls her around in a circle, making her giggle before settling her on his hip and kissing her nose.

“I’m sorry, Nijah. You’re an angel, you know that?”

“Mr. Roy, does this mean you’re the bastard colonel?”

Roy chokes.

000

They go for a walk after that, Roy pushing Nijah’s chair as Ed and Shireen walk ahead. For as much as Nijah protests that she not sick and she’s not a baby and she doesn’t need a nap….she falls asleep within five minutes.

Roy continues to push, gentle smile on his face, listening in on Ed and Shireen’s conversation.

“So you—your leg isn’t real, right? It’s metal. You have a metal leg and you can walk around just fine.”

Ed nods. “It’s called automail. It’s more sensitive than regular prosthesis, it connects to your nerves and allows for some actual movement. It’s not the same as a flesh and blood limb, it will never be the same, but it’s a miracle in its own right.” Ed says softly.

“So Nijah could have a leg again?” Shireen asks wondrously.

Ed sighs. “The process of getting automail, the surgeries and rehabilitation, it’s very painful, Shireen. And it’s really not good to get automail until you’re done growing; using automail can take up a lot of energy, and it often stunts your growth.”

Roy remembers the way Ed had shot up after getting his arm back, the extra surgeries he’d had to adjust the port on his leg for the outrageous growth spurts and regrets every single time he called the boy short all over again.

“Well, you’re pretty tall, how old were you when you got automail?”

Ed gapes at her. “Have I told you yet how much I like you, kid?”

Shireen beams at him.

“Well I, I’m a bit of a special case. I was eleven, but there were…it was pretty overwhelming. I really shouldn’t have, Shireen, but I needed to help my brother. Win, she makes kids wait ‘til they’re sixteen or seventeen nowadays.”

“Who’s Win?”

“Oh, her name’s Winry, she’s my wife. Best automail mechanic in the world, too.”

“Is that why you married her?” Shireen asks, and Ed laughs out loud.

“No, no. The leg might be why she agreed to married me, though. Any time I make her mad, she can just steal it while I sleep.” Ed says with a wink, and Shireen giggles.

She actually giggles.

They walk in comfortable silence for a while, seeming to forget all about Roy and the sleeping Nijah behind them.

“Mr. Elric?”

“You can call me Ed, sweetie.”

“Mr. Ed, I—I was wondering, well I bet automail’s real expensive, right? I know Mama and Papa left us some money, I’m not sure how much, but we have some, and I can get a job, I’m smart, I work hard. I could probably have enough together by the time Nijah’s sixteen--,”

Ed looks stricken. Roy’s heart breaks in fucking half.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ed says, grabbing her hand, “Don’t worry about that, you don’t need to--,”

“Yes I do,” Shireen says fiercely, “She’s, Nijah’s my little sister, she’s all I’ve got, and she needs this, she--you didn’t know her before, all she did was run, skip, and hop all over the place. She needs a leg, not just some peg leg so she can hobble around, she needs to run. She needs to live, I—I gotta give her that at least, after what I’ve done, I gotta—I gotta--,”

Roy is kneeling beside her by the time she bursts into tears. He pulls her into a hug, hand cupping the back of her head.

Her arms snake around to the back of his shirt and grip it tightly as she sobs into his shoulder.

“Shhhh, shhhhh, Shireen, honey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Breathe, just breathe, you’re fine. You’ll be fine, it’s alright. Shhhhh,” Roy whispers over and over again, petting her hair, rubbing her back. Hugging her tighter.

“It should have been me,” Shireen whispers, “That was my seat in the car, it was always my seat, but I made her switch—I made her switch that day because I w-wanted to see the silly street performers out the window and we had a fight about it, and Papa made us flip a coin and I won and—Roy it should’ve been me. It was ‘sposed to be my leg.”

And Roy’s heart shatters into a million tiny pieces.

“Hey, sweetheart, hey look at me. Look at me.” Roy says, pulling back from the hug to cup her cheeks in his hands, wiping away her tears with the pads of his thumb, caressing her shiny scar. “Shireen, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Something terrible happened to you, to all of you, but you’re here. You’re here, Shireen, and Nijah’s here, and I know sometimes it hurts so badly you think it’ll never stop, and you miss your family every single day, but you’re both here and that’s a miracle, sweetheart.

“And, I can’t speak for your sister, but I think she’s forgiven you. I doubt she ever blamed you in the first place, Shireen. You can ask her yourself, if you want, but just know, what happened that day wasn’t your fault.

“Nothing’s ever going to be the same as it was before, and sometimes it probably feels like you’re trudging through a river of mud,” Roy glances up at Ed, and he smiles grimly. “But you just keep moving forward. You just keep going, like Nijah on those crutches. You keep going, and one day, you realize it’s gotten better.”

Shireen doesn’t respond, just lurches forward, curling herself into Roy’s chest and gripping the back of his shirt once again.

Roy doesn’t let go.

000

Ed takes over pushing Nijah, and Roy carries the now sleeping Shireen back up the pathways to the home. Once they reach the building, Ed carefully lifts Nijah from the chair and into one arm, collapsing the chair and grabbing it with the other, before following Roy up the stairs to the girls’ room.

Once in the room, Roy undoes the covers on both beds and lays Shireen down in her own. He takes off her coat and shoes, and gently removes the ribbons and unravels her braids before tucking her in. Ed does the same for Nijah, and they quietly slip out of the room, Roy last, switching off the light and closing the door three fourths of the way, leaving a sliver of light the way Nijah likes it.

“I was wrong,” Ed says abruptly. “I was wrong.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate hearing that from you, but about what, Fullmetal?” Ed glares.

“Do you love them?”

“Yes,” Roy says without hesitation. “I do--,”

“Does Riza love them?”

“Of course she does, Edward, she--,”

“Then this isn’t complicated, Roy. It’s not. You love them, and they love you, and that’s all there is. That’s all that matters. You and Riza need to take them home.”

Roy sucks in a hard breath. “You know there’s more to it than that, it’s more difficult--,”

“No it’s not--,”

“Yes, it is! Do you know the kind of outrage it could prompt? “Flame Alchemist kidnaps Ishvalan orphans” that’ll be the headline the next day, you know how cruel those rags can be. They had a field day already with my and Riza’s engagement, we would’ve been fucking court martialed if not for Grumman. I couldn’t put them through that kind of hurt, that kind of scrutiny—I couldn’t!”

“God, is this about your Fuhrer shit? This will put you off _track_ and children aren’t in the _plan_ and--,”

“I don’t give a _damn_ about being Fuhrer!” It’s the first time in his life he’s said the words, but now, he knows it’s true. It is. This goal that has consumed his life for nearly two decades it just, now, it doesn’t even matter, doesn’t seem real or good or necessary compared to the two little girls through the door.

 Ed looks shocked, but swallows it quickly. “Then you severely underestimate the decency of humans overall,” he says sadly.

“It only take one indecent person to ruin it for the rest,” Roy replies harshly. “Besides it doesn’t matter. Nijah and Shireen would have to agree to it--,”

“Oh yeah, that’s _such_ a problem--,” Ed mutters.

“It is. Nijah would probably say yes, but she won’t go anywhere without Shireen and Shireen….Ed, she knows. She knows who we are, what we did. What I did. She flat out told me I murdered their grandmother first time I met her, you think she could ever even _fathom_ living under the same roof as me?

“And really, how the hell could I ever be a parent? Riza, she’s, she’d be a natural, I know, but I, God, I’d just, I’d screw it all up, I’d screw _them_ up--,”

“You didn’t screw up Al and me,” Ed says quietly, before turning to walk down the stairs. “You severely underestimate yourself, too.

“Hey, whatever happens with this,” Ed says, turning back to Roy, “You give those girls my number. You tell Shireen once Nijah turns sixteen, the automail’s on Winry and me, no charge. Got it?”

Ed walks away before Roy is able to overcome his shock.

000

It’s another two days before the Elrics leave town, and Roy and Riza have time to visit the home once again. Riza, who had been informed of Shireen’s breakdown and the consequent revelation, has been positively itching to go since she heard.

But she loves the Elrics, too, the family they adore and really see so little of, all things considered, and she doesn’t want to interrupt their visit or cut it short. So she waits.

They both wait.

And ten minutes after the Elrics board their train, Roy and Riza head to the Children’s Home.

“Ms. Riza! Mr. Roy!” Nijah shouts happily, hobbling over to them on her crutches.

All by herself.

“Nijah, oh goodness, look at you! You’re so strong, sweetheart, you’re doing so well,” Riza says, pulling Nijah into a hug.

“I missed you, Ms. Riza,” Nijah sighs, burying her face into Riza’s stomach. Riza pets back her white bangs gently.

“I missed you, too, Nijah.”

Roy clears his throat, “Nijah, where’s Shireen?”

“Oh, she’s at the ducky pond island, readin’ I think,” Nijah scrunches her nose. “She’s been real odd lately, Mr. Roy, she’s all quiet. Well,” Nijah amends, “more quiet than usual. And her eyebrows are all squished together like this all the time,” Nijah says, demonstrating said eyebrow squishing, “Like she’s thinking lots. And Papa always said it wasn’t a good thing when Shireen is thinking lots, ‘cause she’s too clever for her own good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sweetheart,” Roy says, smiling lightly and walking to the duck pond and over the bridge.

“Hello,” Roy says lightly, settling next to Shireen on the ground at the base of the willow. “How are you, Shireen?”

“I’m fine.” She says, not looking up from her book. “Have you ever lied to Edward before?”

And Roy knows that today is going to be a very interesting day.

“Yes, I have, when he was young. I lied to him if I thought it would keep him safe. It wasn’t often, but I did.” Shireen nods as though she was expecting this, but doesn’t look up.

“Do you now? Now that he’s all grown up?”

Oh. _Oh_.

Roy swallows thickly.

“No. I don’t.”

Shireen looks up and tilts her head at Roy, as though sizing him up. Roy maintains eye contact; he has a feeling, at this moment, it’s an important thing to do.

Shireen seems to find what she’s looking for and nods, “You remember that first day, the first time I talked to you?” Roy nods. “You said I could ask you anything, and you’d do your best to see it through.”

“Yes, I did.” Roy answers after a moment; his gut feels like there’s a snake wriggling around inside of it.

“Did you mean it?”

Roy takes a deep breath. “Yes, I did.”

“Do you promise to do what I ask? No questions? No conditions?” Oh God, what is she going to ask? Does she want him to kill someone? Does she want him to retire, to turn himself over to what’s left of the Ishvalan elders? Does she want him to disappear forever?

It doesn’t matter. If Shireen asks he’ll do it.

“Yes, I will.”

Shireen reaches out a shaking hand and rests it on Roy’s. “Would you—would you take us home with you and Ms. Riza then? Nijah and me, will you take us home?”

And yes, they’re under a tree and it’s beautiful and sunny but boy does it look a whole lot like rain. It’s absolutely pouring, really, under that tree with Shireen.

Somewhere on the other side Maes Hughes is definitely having a conniption.

“Yes,” Roy chokes out around his tears, gathering Shireen into his arms, “we will.”


	3. Ten years later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mustangs, ten years later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These OCs wouldn't leave me alone. I had fun writing this, but the ending was hard to find. Anyway, it's super late/early so probs some typos, but i'll get them later.

1933 - Central City

“Hey Squirt, how ya doin’?” the achingly familiar voice says through the receiver. Maes grins, holding the phone unconsciously closer to his cheek.

“Shireen! You called! I miss you so much! How have you been, is it cold, I bet it’s so cold, are you staying warm? Should I send you more blankets, Mom’s putting together a care package,” Maes gasps, pushing his glasses up his nose in his distress. “No! I wasn’t supposed to tell you, it was supposed to be a surprise, I’m so sorry, Sissy--,”

Maes is interrupted by his older sister’s laughter. “Don’t worry about it kiddo. Yeah, it’s cold, but everybody’s always ready for it here, I promise I’m staying warm. And of course I called! It’s not every day your favorite little brother turns nine!”

Maes feels himself blushing. “I just—I figured you’d be busy, you haven’t been away too long, I would’ve understood if you for--,”

“Squirt, I’ll never forget your birthday, that’s a promise. One of the best days of my life.” The offhanded, factual way that Shireen says it brings unwitting tears to Maes’ eyes. Boy, he misses his sister.

“So, how have you been? Expecting any good presents this year?” Maes sprawls himself out on the bench in the hall and finds himself chatting with his sister far longer than he’s sure she has time for.

“Hey, Maes,” Shireen finally says sadly, “I’m gonna have to go soon, any chance Mom and Nijah are around so I can say hi?” Maes frowns.

“Sorry, Shireen, they’ve been out shopping, they’re not back yet. But…umm…”Maes begins awkwardly, “Well, Dad is here, if--,”

“Nope.” Shireen says firmly, and Maes sighs.

“Are you guys ever going to talk again? This is just getting painful to watch.”

“I’ll talk to him again once that asshole apologizes for real and admits what he did was completely messed up and wrong.” Maes grimaces.

“Isn’t Dad technically your boss now? Are you even allowed to say things like that anymore?” Shireen laughs.

“My disdain of the Fuhrer has rather endeared me to General Armstrong. I wish I wasn’t so far away from you guys, but Briggs was a good choice for me, all things considered. He can’t touch me here.”

Maes sighs again. “Well, we all love you and miss you a whole lot. Even Dad.” Maes hears Shireen sigh exasperatedly. “It’s not the same without you around.”

Shireen snorts. “Oh, c’mon, all I ever did was make snarky comments and sit in the corner reading books. You can get on without me just fine.”

The description makes Maes sad. Because his oldest sister has always been such a calming, quiet presence in the house. Funny, but not unkind, always willing to help. The person Maes always went to first when he had bad dreams or needed to talk about thoughts and feelings nobody else in the house would immediately understand. A well of knowledge and honestly and love. His sister is so much more than a bookworm in the corner.

He wishes she could see it.  Wishes she could understand how deeply their whole family misses her.

Even Dad.

Especially Dad.

Instead Maes says, “No, I can’t. You write me and I’ll write you. I love you!”

“I love you more.”

“I love you most!”

“I love you more than most.”

“I love you--,”

“Just let me win this one, Squirt.” Maes smiles. “Bye, little brother. Happy Birthday.”

“Bye Sissy.”

Maes hangs up the phone and slowly pulls himself up from the bench, readjusting the fancy pillows he squished before he trudges to the kitchen.

Maybe chocolate milk will make him happy. Cook will let him have it, it’s his birthday after all.

But Maes doesn’t make it to the kitchen. Instead he runs, quite literally, into his father as he turns the corner.

“Whoa! Hey buddy,” Dad says, grabbing his shoulders to keep them both from falling, grin on his face fading as he notices Maes’ frown. “What’s wrong? Nobody should look that sad on their birthday, it’s simply not allowed.”

Maes shrugs, and Dad frowns, putting an arm around Maes’ shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Dad asks, leading them to the living room and settling them both on the couch.

“I miss Shireen,” Maes finally admits, and Dad bites his lip, eyes narrowed.

“Was that who you were on the phone with?” Maes nods.

“Didn’t want to talk to me?” Maes nods again, and Dad sighs heavily, looking up at the ceiling.

“Will you guys ever make up? I mean, you’ve had fights before, but this is just ridiculous. Can’t you just apologize--,”

“I _have_ apologized Maes,” Dad says heavily. Maes rolls his eyes.

“Well obviously you didn’t mean it. She says she’ll talk to you again if you ‘apologize for real’ and ‘admit what you did was completely messed up and wrong.’” Maes says, adding the quotes with his fingers. He decides it’s probably in everyone’s best interests to leave “asshole” out of the conversation.

“I did mean it.”

Maes shakes his head. “You know her. You know how smart she is. She can read us all like books, and she can sniff out liars like a bloodhound. You didn’t mean it. What did you even do, Dad?” Because since the explosive fight six weeks ago that had woken Maes up in the middle of the night, the fight the servants still gossip about, the one that ended with an ancient Xingese vase gifted to them by the Emperor himself in pieces on ground and _Mom_ of all people in tears, the fight between Dad and Shireen featuring wonderful highlights like Shireen calling Dad “a fucking murderer who used them in his warped penance” and Dad calling Shireen “an idiotic, spoiled, delusional little girl who’s forgotten how cruel the world can be”; well, nothing has been the same.

And nobody will even tell Maes what started it.

But it ended with Shireen storming out of the house and sleeping over at Elysia’s apartment before shipping out to Briggs the next morning.

She didn’t even say goodbye in person, just left letters at Elysia’s for Mom and Nijah and Maes.

None for Dad.

Dad takes a shuddering breath.

“I tried to do something stupid and mean. It almost worked.” Dad grits his teeth. “I am sorry that I hurt her feelings. But she’s right. I don’t regret doing it. I really, really wish it worked.”

It’s not an answer.

But Maes is pretty sure, for now, it’s the best he’s going to get.

000

The rest of the day is nice, all things considered. Cook bakes him one of the biggest chocolate cakes he’s ever seen; Aunt Gracia and her husband Tony join them for dinner; they give him a new sweater. Al and May send him some new books on alkahestry; Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Jean send him a BB gun, which Maes sees his mother smirk at with a fond glint in her eye; the Ed Elric clan send him two sets of boxing gloves, with instructions from Uncle Ed to “give the punk ass Fuhrer a sock in the mouth from me” (Maes doesn’t let Dad see the note. Nijah sees it and laughs out loud).

Nijah hands Maes a small box, pretty smile on her face. “This is from Sissy and me. She told me you better use it often, and if you don’t send some along and keep her updated she’s disowning you.”

Maes grins. Then he opens up the brand new camera and wants to cry again.

“Wow! Oh my goodness, thank you Nijah, this is so cool! Yes, yes, I’ll send her lots of pictures, tons of pictures, every day of everything and--,”

“How ‘bout you send her a picture of this, first?” Mom says, walking toward Maes with a bundle in her arms. Maes moves the blanket to the side and reveals—

“A PUPPY!”

Maes Mustang is a rather spoiled child.

He supposes as long as he’s aware and honest about it, it’s not such a bad thing to be.

000

Maes walks in to Nijah’s room just as she’s removing her leg for the night.

“Oh, hey brother,” Nijah says softly, unbuckling the straps of her prosthetic and gently letting the plastic and metal contraption fall to the ground. Nijah pats the bed beside her and Maes rushes over.

“Can’t you tell me why they’re fighting? Please, please please? I just want to understand, maybe I can help--,”

“Maes, you can’t help with this one.”

“Well, don’t I at least deserve to know what’s going on? I am nine now, I’m part of this family, too, I’m affected by this just as much as everyone else and--,”

“Dad tried to stop Sissy from passing the medical exam.”

What?

“What?” Maes gasps. Nijah breathes heavily.

“A month before her graduation from the academy, when everyone was having their final physicals and the first cadets were being given their orders, Dad went to the enlistment committee and tried to make the medical qualifications for active duty stricter for pre-existing conditions.

“And you know how Dad can be, how persuasive he is. He almost got the committee to pass it, just in time for Sissy’s physical. She’d have been 4F for sure if Dad’s new restrictions went through. Which, of course, was the point.

“But Major Armstrong’s on the committee, and he thought it was odd, especially the timing. He talked to Uncle Ed and Mom about it, and in the end the committee didn’t pass the new restrictions. But Elysia heard about it, too, and she told Sissy, and then, well—,”

“Oh.” Maes says sadly. “That’s bad.”

“Yeah. It really is.” Nijah sighs. “And it was wrong, it was so wrong, but also….I don’t know, Maes, it’s not like I wanted Shireen to be in the army. I don’t like that she’s gone, and she does get sick a lot, she has ever since the accident when we were little. Daddy shouldn’t have done what he did but Shireen….she wouldn’t have listened to any of us, anyway if we tried to talk her out of it. Daddy just doesn’t want her to get hurt, wants her to be safe. I can’t fault him that, I want her safe, too.”

“Speaking of not being hurt,” Maes says with a cough, “Your birthday’s next month. Still gonna do it?”

Nijah smiles sadly. “Of course I am Maes, Uncle Ed promised. I’ve been looking forward to this for ten years, I don’t care if it hurts. And the first thing I’ll do after Aunt Winry clears me is have a footrace against you!” Nijah cries, tickling Maes until he shrieks.

“I’ll beat you.”

“I almost beat you already and my leg is plastic right now. I’m so going to win.”

“In your dreams, sister dear.”

“Oh, brother mine, it’s on.”

000

When Maes comes down for breakfast a few days later, it’s to Mom and Nijah using their “serious conversation” voices in the kitchen. Maes puts his ear against the door to listen.

“Sweetheart, I’m not trying to sway you either way, I just want you to be happy. Are you sure this is what you want?”

Even without seeing her, Maes can tell Nijah is trying valiantly to refrain from sounding exasperated. Maes is pretty sure this is the fourth time _he’s_ heard this conversation happen. He can’t imagine how many times Nijah’s gone through this.

“Yes, Mom. Yes. This is what I want. I’m calling Winry after breakfast today to schedule the appointment.”

“Look, you’ve talked to Ed, right?” Oh, apparently Dad’s there, too. Mustang parents’ last stand. Cute. “You know that you have to be awake? That it’s going to be an average of three years before everything is back to normal and you’re completely finished with rehabilitation? That you might have to use the chair again?” Oooh, Dad with the low blow. “You have to be awake for the _entire_ surgery, Nijah, and it will be painful--,”

“I’d imagine not quite as painful as losing the leg in the first place.” And there’s sweet Nijah, coming in hot with an even lower blow.

Silence.

Just as the awkwardness is about to swallow Maes whole in the hallway and he’s considering entering the kitchen to save his family from this suffering, Nijah speaks.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, that was really mean I just--,”

“No, Nijah, you’re right.” Mom says quietly. “You know what you’re getting into, you’ve been looking forward to this for years. We just worry. And whatever happens, whatever you do, your father and I will be here to love and support you no matter what.”

Even Maes can hear the double-meaning in her words. Of course, Shireen isn’t home to hear them.

“I know, Mom. And I love you both, too.”

“Why can’t fights with Shireen be this easy?”

Silence.

Maes walks in this time, whistling. Mom and Nijah are in the middle of hugging, both glaring at Dad a few feet away.

“Too, soon, Father dearest. Too, too, too soon.” Maes takes a seat at the table and starts buttering toast. “And, in answer to your question, you and Shireen fight the way you do because you’re the _exact same person_. But don’t listen to me, I’m just nine. I’m much too young to know things.”

Maes takes a bite of toast.

“Hell, he’s mad at me now, too? Does anyone in this family like me?”

“Little Hayate seems fond of you. But he’s also a month old, so he doesn’t know any better yet.” Maes can always count on Mom to give the sickest, lowest blow of all.

She’s so awesome.

000

“Maes Mustang, you have _ten seconds_ to get down here or we are leaving without you. One….Two…Three…,” Maes knows the threat is an empty one, but his mother’s tone is absolutely terrifying.

“—Six….Seven…”

“I’M HERE!” Maes yelps, scrambling so quickly down the steps he falls on the last three. Nijah catches him before he face plants, smirk on her face.

“Watch yourself, brother, or you’re gonna need automail next,” Nijah jokes.

Dad is unamused.

“That’s not funny, Nijah. Come on, car’s here.” And Dad stalks out the front door to the waiting car, entering and sliding across the backseat without looking back.

“It was just a joke. The Elrics make automail jokes all the time,” Nijah mutters, slinging her bag over her shoulder and begrudgingly following Dad.

Mom pats her shoulder with a sigh. “He’s just nervous, kiddo. He’ll be better once your surgery’s over, I promise.”

And Nijah follows Dad into the car.

“Let’s go my Lazy Maesy Daisy,” Mom says, picking up Maes’ bag and using her free hand to cup the back of his head. Maes grins at the old nickname, before looking back at the house.

It’s a pretty red-brick manor house, just outside Central City. Maes and his family have lived there as long as he can remember (Mom had refused to live in the Fuhrer’s mansion on the base after Dad had been elected--something about bad memories.) The shutters are green and the trees surrounding it are old and large and great for climbing. They’ll only be gone a week for Nijah’s surgery, but still, Maes will miss it. It’s a wonderful house.

It’s a wonderful home.

But as the Maes enters the car, and Dad apologizes to Nijah, and Nijah ruffles Maes’ hair, and Mom grabs Dad’s hand, well, Maes remembers that home isn’t really the place.

It’s the people.

000

When the Fuhrer’s train reaches Resembool, it’s met by a rather large crowd, all standing in the rain. Maes spies quite a few cameras and notebooks huddled under umbrellas.

“Oh,” Nijah sighs, staring out the window. “How did they even know we were coming?”

Dad wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry, honey. The MPs will get them out of the way, and we’ll get to the car fast. They aren’t allowed anywhere on the Elric’s land, and the Elric’s have a lot of land out here. We won’t see them again.”

 _Until we leave._ But Maes keeps that thought to himself. He idly wonders what the first picture of Nijah’s new automail will sell for.

People can be cruel.

The MPs do disperse the reporters, and Maes’ family files quickly into the waiting car. Everyone is very quiet. It makes Maes sad, because usually coming to Resembool and seeing the Elrics is a joyful thing. Everyone is always so fun and happy, they catch up and play games and eat good food. And they’re all always sad to leave. Even Dad.

But today the ride is quiet. Mom is straight-faced staring out the window; Dad and Nijah both look a little like they’re going got be sick. Maes wishes desperately in that moment for Shireen. Because these are the times, when everyone is somber and quiet and contemplative, when Shireen would look up from her book and snort and tell them a joke that really isn’t very funny she’s just read, but make them all laugh anyway. Or she’d tell a story about the last time they visited the Elric’s, or an anecdote she’d heard recently at school. She’d laugh and start the conversation, then sit back and stare at her book, small smile on her face as she listened to their family’s antics.

Instead Maes looks out the window and watches the rain drip down. Well, he does until the car turns down the Elric’s long lane, and Maes spies a yellow spot running toward them from the house in the distance.

“STOP!” Maes yelps. “STOP THE CAR!” Everyone in the back seat lurches horribly as the car stops.

“Maes, what the hell?”

“Brother why--,”

“At least put on your rain--,” But Maes is out the door before Mom can finish the sentence, slamming the door behind him and sprinting through the mud and water and gunk to reach the growing yellow speck.

“MAES!” the yellow speck yelps. Maes can see her face now, her smile wide and pretty gray eyes shining brightly. “MAES YOU’RE HERE!”

Maes sprints even faster, meeting the yellow-clad nine year old in the middle and nearly tackling her in a hug.

“Trisha! I missed you! It’s so good to see you, you never write me letters and I write you so many letters, why don’t you write more? You could call too, y’know?”

Trisha Elric laughs out loud and grabs his hand, dragging him toward the house. “It’s never the same as being together for real. Convinced your parents to move to Resembool yet?”

Maes grins. “It’d be easier if you guys just moved to Central, your mom can be a mechanic anywhere! Dad, on the other hand, cannot exactly run the country from Resembool.” Trisha slaps him playfully on the shoulder before pulling an umbrella from inside her rain coat.

“You dummy, you’re soaked. Where’s your coat?”

“In the car,” Maes says sheepishly, just as said car pulls up beside them.

“Hello, Trisha,” Dad wryly greets as he puts the window down. “Would you two like a ride?”

Trisha opens up the umbrella and beams at Dad. “Nope, Uncle Roy, I came prepared. We’d just get the backseat all muddy anyway.”

“I still don’t understand how _Edward Elric_ ended up with considerate children,” Maes hears his father mutter as he rolls up the window and the car drives on up the muddy lane.

“Erm, sorry?” Maes says, huddling under the umbrella with Trisha as they walk up the lane. Trisha chuckles.

“Don’t worry about it, they love each other; they just have a very weird way of showing it. And every time you guys come to town, Dad expresses his disbelief that the “bastard Colonel” has such smart, cool kids,” Trisha explains, “Then he concludes that it all came from Hawkeye.”

Maes shrugs. “Probably true.”

Trisha laughs again, and bumps his shoulder with hers. “Boy, I missed you a whole lot, Maes.”

“Yeah,” Maes says, smiling down at his favorite person in the world. “Yeah, I missed you a whole lot, too.”

000

The Elrics and Mustangs sit around three tables pushed together in the kitchen, eating Winry’s wonderful stew with apple pie for dessert.

After dinner, the families sojourn to the living room, and Aunt Winry quietly slips Nijah out of the room when Ben and Nina start showing off their newest alchemy skills. After Winry returns without Nijah, Maes waits five minutes then leaves the show, using the bathroom as an excuse.

He follows the echoes of Nijah’s sweet, lilting voice. She’s in Ed’s library in the back, talking on the phone.

“Sissy, it’s okay. It really is, please don’t worry…..No, stop that, I’m not mad. I’m not. It’s my fault, I knew you couldn’t get leave this soon, I just got so excited once I was sixteen…..Yeah. Yeah, I know……I’m sorry, too…..Look Shireen, I just—You are with me. You’re always with me, just like Mama and Papa and Abba. People don’t have to be dead to hold them in your heart, and you, Sissy, you’re always with me in my heart, you must know that. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you, I wouldn’t have even made it out of that car alive all those years ago….No, n-no Sissy, please don’t cry. P-please, you’ll just make me--,”

Maes hears his sister dissolve into sobs.

“Y-yeah….Yeah….I-I might not be able to call tomorrow, but someone will call you….No, I won’t make you talk to Dad. I wish—No, we’re not talking about that now. Yeah……Thank you, Sissy. I love you so much…I love you most….Goodbye. Good night.”

000

The Elrics live in a big, old country house, but not even they have enough bedrooms to accommodate all the Elrics and (most of) the Mustangs. It leaves Nina, Trisha, Maes and Ben sleeping on the couches and mats in the living room.

Maes waits until everyone is asleep, waits until the candles are blown out and the murmurs of the adults in the kitchen are silenced before he creeps down the hall, up the stairs, padding to the room Nina and Trisha share, which they’ve given over to Nijah for the night.

Nijah has her own room because Winry wants her well-rested for the surgery tomorrow, undisturbed and quiet. But Maes knows his sister. He knows there’s no way she’s asleep right now.

“Nijah,” Maes whispers into the room, wincing when he hears to the door creak. “Nijah, you up?”

Maes hears Nijah let out a soft chuckle and watches her roll over, her red eyes shining in the moonlight. “Hey brother,” she says, patting the bed beside her. Maes rushes over and slips under the covers. Nijah wraps her arms around him tightly, her cold foot tickling his leg.

“Hey, Nijah,” Maes whispers into his sister’s collarbone, hugging her tightly, “I just wanted you to know, it’s okay if you’re scared. I know you want this, and I know you’ve had to work really hard convincing everybody, especially Mom and Dad to let you do it now. You’ve been really brave and really strong. But it’s okay to be scared right now, it is scary, no matter how much you want to run and jump and skip again. You can be scared now. You can cry if you want, I won’t tell anybody.”

Nijah lets out a soft sob, and Maes feels tears drip into his hair. They stay like that for a while, hugging and crying and being as the full moon crosses the sky through the window, pretty and bright like Nijah’s hair.

“What did I ever do to deserve a brother like you, Maes?”

Somehow, they fall asleep, just like that, wrapped around each other. They wake up the next morning to Mom shaking their shoulders at dawn. Aunt Winry wants to start the surgery early.

Dad picks up the half-awake Maes like he’s still five instead of the very mature and adult age of nine, and carries him to Ben’s room, where Mom and Dad had slept the night before, so Nijah can get ready.

Maes is nearly asleep again when a horrible thought wakes him up.

“Dad!” he gasps, sitting up, scrambling to find the glasses Dad had set on the bedside table and shoving them on his face, “I gotta say good luck, I never said that to her! Oh goodness, how thoughtless, and I gotta tell her how much I love her and--,”

“Kiddo, she knows.” Dad says softly, sitting on the bed and petting back his bangs, slipping his glasses back off. “She definitely knows. Just go back to sleep now, you don’t have to be up yet.”

Then Dad kisses his head and tucks him back in, and Maes doesn’t really have a choice.

He falls back asleep.

000

Maes wakes up again a few hours later, and pads into the kitchen to find Uncle Ed, Trisha and Sam making scrambled eggs.

“Mornin’ Maes,” Ed says happily, pouring out a glass of orange juice and handing it to him, directing him to a seat at the table.

“Can I help?” Maes asks, looking at Trisha at the stove and little Sam cleaning a pot nearly bigger than his body in the sink.

“No, no of course not. You’re our guest!” Ed says happily, forcing Maes down into the seat and settling a plate of eggs before him.

“Daddy, I’m stuck,” Sam says angrily from the sink. And indeed his is stuck, his tiny body somehow squashed inside the stew pot from last night, inside the sink. “Make Ben and Nina do this, I’m tired. I want eggs.”

“Whiny little brats don’t get my eggs, Sam,” Trisha says calmly from the stove, and Ed grins, before pulling the damp four year old from the pot with a squelching noise.

“It’s too bad, too. I think these are the best eggs I’ve ever had,” Maes adds, playing along as he silently sends out a prayer of forgiveness to Cook. Because Cook’s eggs, oh man, they’re really the best. Everything Cook makes is the best.

“Plus, buddy, your brother and sister are still asleep. They have unfortunately entered a stage of life known as,” Ed pauses, looking both ways dramatically and narrowing his eyes before whispering to Sam, “ _adolescence.”_

“What’s the…ado—epto—shes—what’s that, Daddy?”

“Oh, it’s horrible, Sam.” Maes chimes in, “It’s terrible. Shireen and Nijah barely survived it. They got grouchy and angry and slept all the time and they grew in weird places and, in the mornings—if I—If I woke them up too soon,” Maes rests the back of his hand on his forehead and throws his head back dramatically, closing his eyes.

“What happened?” Sam whispers, blue eyes wide.

“It hurts too much to talk about, Sammy. I daren’t burden you with my troubles.” Uncle Ed barely holds back a guffaw.

“What? What happened? You have to tell me, Maes, what if I wake them up too early? What happens then?”

“We turn in to MONSTERS!” Nina shouts, pouncing on Sam from behind the door. Poor little Sammy shrieks and runs, only to be caught up in Ben’s arms.

“Monsters who feast solely on the hearts of LITTLE BROTHERS!”

“AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!” Sam screams and screams, wriggling in Ben’s arms, “NOOOOO Daddy, Daddy, don’t let them eat me, please please please!!!!!”

Ben hugs his brother close and kisses him on the head as they all laugh. “We’d never eat you kid, we love you too much.”

“Plus, you’d taste nasty. Not sanitary at all, you don’t take enough baths, Sammy,” Nina adds.

Sam pouts. “You’re so mean. You’re all so mean to me. I want Mommy, where’s Mommy?”

Maes’ stomach drops. For in the lightness of the moment, he’d completely forgotten about Nijah. About Aunt Winry in the operating room behind the house, reawakening Nijah’s long dead nerves. About Nijah, terrified and in horrible pain.

Forgotten about Mom and Dad, holding Nijah’s hands and listening to her scream.

Trisha comes to sit by Maes and grabs his hand under the table.

“She’s at work buddy, remember?” Ed says softly. “That’s why Uncle Roy and Aunt Riza are here. Mommy’s giving Nijah a shiny new leg.

“Like Daddy’s?”

Ed grins. “Just like Daddy’s. Even better than Daddy’s probably.”

Maes’ heart settles just a little at the thought.

000

After breakfast, they all get dressed and Uncle Ed sends them off to play outside.

“Go get some fresh air, play games, be kids, all that jazz.”

“But Daddy, it’s all muddy.”

“It’s okay, Sammy, the muck monsters only come out in June.”

“But--Daddy it _is_ June!”

After a few minutes, the highly traumatized Sammy is convinced to come outside, and Maes spends what should be a very enjoyable morning playing games with the Elric siblings. He can tell how hard they’re all trying to keep his mind off Nijah, most especially Trisha, but, try as they might, nothing is working.

And after about three hours outside, Maes uses going to the bathroom as an excuse once again to try to get an update on Nijah.

Maes doesn’t make it to the bathroom, though. His trail is interrupted by muffled voices through the kitchen door.

“Fuck, Fullmetal. Fuck, that was…..God damn it, that was _awful_.” Dad sounds unbearably pained. Maes leans in closer to the door.

“It tends to be. Winry said it went well, the nerves were good, all things considered. She said Nijah was very brave--,”

“I’m not—I know she was, I know it went well. But, shit, Edward, you were eleven. You were eleven and you did that _twice_ because I fucking told you to enlist, and then I just left. I didn’t even see you again for another year, didn’t ask how it went or check in or _anything_. I—I, God, Ed, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so _sorry_.

Maes hears Uncle Ed’s shocked intake of breath.

“Look, Mustang, I would’ve done it no matter what, you know me. I wouldn’t have been able to sit around in that chair the rest of my life. You just—you gave me some incentive and direction a little faster than expected, that’s all.

“But I just--,”

“Kids give you a different perspective on life. That’s how it’s supposed to work, you watch them grow up and it makes you grow up, too. And I know what you just saw was horrible to witness no matter what, but it was infinitely worse because she’s your kid. Seeing family in pain hurts almost always worse than the physical pain they experience.

“And now, you’re feeling bad because you can finally empathize with the automail surgery, and you’re my family now, too, bastard, like it or not you are. And you’re angry that you weren’t there for me then.

“But we weren’t family then. We were strangers, and you found a weird-ass cripple kid with a suit of armor for a brother, and instead of arresting us like you should’ve, instead of taking us to an actual hospital or an insane asylum or one of the labs like any normal person would’ve, you gave us a job. You gave us hope.

“Please don’t feel bad now, Roy. I promise you it all turned out in the best possible way. If all that’s what it took to get to today, I don’t regret a second of it, automail and all. You shouldn’t regret it, either.”

Maes pretends not to hear his father cry.

000

“Hey, Ed, honey, can you go get me the—Oh, hi Maes,” Winry says, taking off her mask and washing her hands in the sink, “I thought you were outside playing with my crew.”

Maes shrugs, and does his best to discreetly peek around Winry to see what he can of the recovery room and Nijah. Unfortunately, the door is shut. “I was. I had to go to the bathroom, and I overhead Dad and Uncle Ed talking in the kitchen, so I figured it was finished.”

“Had to go to the bathroom, huh?” Winry asks with a small smirk. Shireen isn’t the only person Maes knows who can sniff out a lie like a bloodhound. Maes shrugs his shoulders sheepishly.

“Can I see her? Is she awake?”

Winry breathes heavily out her nose. “Yeah, you can see her. Your mom’s in there with her now. Nijah’s asleep, though. The surgery went really well, but she needs to rest now, so be quiet.”

Maes nods, and washes his hands after Aunt Winry. Once she’s satisfied that he’s clean, Winry nods and leads him through the door.

Nijah’s lying in the bed, eyes closed, white hair fanning out under her, blending in with the sheet. There’s an IV hooked up to her arm, and dark bags line the bottom of her eyes. Her stump and leg are covered by the sheet, but Maes can see the lump where Nijah’s thigh is now attached to the automail port.

Mom’s sitting in the chair right next to the bed, hand holding Nijah’s tightly. Her hair is down, and her face looks just as tired and drawn as Nijah’s.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom says softly, giving Maes a tight smile. There’s another chair in the room, but Maes bypasses it and goes to Mom. Mom scoots over, and Maes ends up half on the chair, half on her legs. He tries to sit more on the chair, because he is _nine_ now and he’s much too big to sit on his mother’s lap.

But then Mom wraps her free arm around his waist and pulls him all the way onto her lap, so Maes just rests his head on Mom’s shoulder instead. She’s seems like she needs it right now.

Maes needs her, too.

000

After five more peaceful days in Resembool, Maes and his parents pack up to leave.

“Do I have to go?” Maes whines to his father, watching him pack his bag while sitting on Ben’s bed. “Really, I should stay. It would be so cruel to leave Nijah here alone.”

The guilt trip does not work. Dad rolls his eyes. “She won’t be alone, Maes, you know that. She’ll be so crowded and fussed over here she’ll probably be itching to leave by the end of the month.”

“Impossible,” Maes contradicts. Because really, it is impossible to ever be tired of the Elrics and Resembool.

Dad rolls his eyes again. “You and Mom will be back next weekend, it’s only a few days, son. And the Cretan delegation is coming this week to discuss the trade deal, it’s been planned for months, we have to be there.”

Maes clicks his tongue. “Yes, Dad. _You_ have to be there. But I don’t see why _I_ have to be there. I am only nine, unless you’ve forgotten.”

“The Crown Princess is bringing her family along. Her twins are very excited to meet you at the dinner.”

Being the son of the Fuhrer can be such a _burden_ sometimes.

“Ugh, Dad, they’re like _five_! This is stupid. I want to stay.” Maes harrumphs.

“Now you sound five, Maes. You’ll be back soon. Go say your goodbyes.”

Highly offended, Maes runs from the room and hugs all the Elrics. Ben ruffles his hair, Nina kisses his cheek. Sam grabs his leg and begs him not to leave. Winry gives him a pie and Ed pats his head and tells him to give his dad hell.

“Don’t be sad, Maes,” Trisha whispers to him softly when she hugs him. “You’ll be back soon. We’ll see each other again. And we’ll all take good care of Nijah when you’re gone, promise.”

Satisfied with that, at least, Maes goes up to the girls’ room, where Nijah’s supposed to be taking an afternoon nap.

“Nijah,” Maes whispers into the room, “Are you awake?”

Nijah pats the bed beside her and Maes scrambles in.

“I’ll miss you,” Maes whispers, and Nijah hugs him tightly. “I feel like our family’s being pulled apart. Why can’t everybody just be together again?”

“It’s not forever,” Nijah says softly. “We’ll all be together again soon enough. Just be patient, brother.”

Maes Mustang is good at many things. Patience is not one of them.

000

When Maes and his parents get back home, the first place Maes goes is the kitchen.

“Cook!” Maes shouts as he bursts through the doors, “Cook, Aunt Winry made some apple pie for you. I suggest we eat it now with ice cream.”

“Mr. Maes, you silly boy, you’ll spoil your dinner.” Cook says, slapping him with a towel before pulling him into a hug, her red eyes glowing with mirth.

But she does go and pull vanilla ice cream out of the ice box.

“My dearest darling Cook, chocolate ice cream, if you please. You and I both know it’s infinitely better than _vanilla_.” Maes says with mock disgust. In reality, he quite enjoys vanilla. But, really, if chocolate is a choice, well, it’s no choice at all.

Cook rolls her eyes, muttering about complimenting tastes and little boys turning into cocoa beans, but she pulls out the chocolate ice cream as well and grabs plates and forks for them.

“So, how did it go? Word around here is Ms. Nijah’s surgery went well.” Maes nods, quickly swallowing his bite of pie and ice cream. Really, chocolate ice cream and apple pie is the perfect combination, and anyone who says otherwise is just wrong.

“Yeah, she’s still really tired a lot, and the port hurts her, but it’s not infected or anything and Winry’s weaning her off the painkillers. Winry thinks they might even try attaching the leg for a test in just a couple weeks if everything keeps going this well.”

Cook crosses herself then kisses her palm, muttering a prayer in Ishvalan under her breath. “I’m sure they will. Ms. Nijah is a very strong person. Ishvala blesses her roses with more than just beauty.” Cook says knowingly.

Maes nods and takes another bite of his chocolate apple pie.

000

“Oh, you’ve grown to be such a handsome boy, Maes,” the Crown Princess Isabella gushes, pinching his cheek, “You look just like your dear father, but with your mother’s beautiful eyes.” Maes shoves his glasses up his nose and works valiantly to keep from rolling his beautiful eyes.

“You’re too, too, too kind, Your Highness,” Maes gushes in return, adding in a small bow, and fighting to keep from wincing after his dear father pinches his arm. Luckily the princess doesn’t catch his sarcasm, just beams at him.

“And where are your lovely daughters, this evening, Your Excellency?” The princess continues, and Maes tunes out the rest of conversation. He always has difficulty keeping in the snort when people address his father as such. But tonight he does it. Because Mom and Dad have promised, if he’s extra good and polite tonight, they’ll let him go back to Resembool tomorrow, a whole day and a half earlier than expected.

Maes Mustang is on his best behavior.

He puts up with more horrible cheek pinching and small talk, he plays with the admittedly adorable five year old prince and princess; he puts his napkin on his lap and doesn’t slurp his soup, makes conversation about _school_ with the Cretan ambassador while they eat, and doesn’t spill any of his food. Not one. Single. Drop.

Maes is rather impressed with himself.

Dessert is rolled out, a beautiful three-tiered white cake, filled and decorated with the sumptuous strawberries the Cretans had brought along with them as a gift. It’s beautiful and delicious and Cook has honestly outdone herself this time.

But Dad’s allergic to strawberries. So Cook makes him his own, pretty little chocolate cake for dessert.

And it. Just. Sits there.

Maes tries to talk himself out of it, fills himself up with two delicious pieces of the very pleasant strawberry cake and pretends the chocolate delicacy to his right simply doesn’t exist.

But for what feels like hours, Dad talks and talks and talks to Prince Francis who’s across the table from them, paying no mind to the decadent gift Cook has given just him.

Just as Maes is readying to resign himself to a sad, lonely night of no chocolate, preparing to ask to be excused and go to bed so he can go dream of his favorite treat instead, Dad, without even looking away from the prince, slides the cake to his right and winks quickly at Maes.

Sometimes his dad can be pretty great.

Happy that the night has not turned into a total bust, and positive that he’ll be arriving in Resembool at this time tomorrow evening, Maes picks up his fork and shoves a large piece of the chocolate cake into his mouth.

And it tastes….funny.

It leaves a sour veil in his mouth, and if they weren’t at a state dinner with the Cretans, Maes would spit the bite back up into his napkin.

But they are at a state dinner, and Maes wants to go Resembool tomorrow, so he swallows the disgusting bite and takes a huge gulp of water from his glass before anyone can see his grimace.

What could’ve gone wrong with the cake, Maes wonders. Cook has never, in his memory, served something so horrible, especially when they have _guests_. Perhaps the milk she used in it had gone bad or maybe the eggs or—

“D-dad,” Maes whispers, swallowing thickly as he grabs his father’s arm, “Dad, I don’t—I don’t feel good.”

Dad looks over quickly. His eyes grow wide when he sees Maes’ face.

“Maes what’s wrong?”

But Maes can’t respond yet, and he brings the hand not clutching his father’s wrist up to his throat, breath wheezing.

“Cake—your cake’s bad,” Maes finally gasps, before falling to the floor rather dramatically.

Life passes in flashes after that. There’s lots of shouting and screaming and running. He’s still on the floor, Maes realizes eventually, but Dad’s there, he’s lying in Dad’s lap. And then Mom is there in her pretty purple dress, the beautiful eyes she gave Maes wide and terrified.

And then Mom, she sticks her _fingers_ in his throat, back and back and back, and it hurts so bad, and there are tears in his eyes and the world is gray and floaty.

And then he spews vomit all over his mother’s pretty purple dress, and the world comes back for a bit.

“Maes,” Mom barks at him, her hand cupping his face, pressing his glasses painfully into the bridge of his nose, “Maes, you stay awake. Don’t you dare shut your eyes. Don’t you dare.” And Dad’s holding him so tight it hurts, and Mom is gripping his hand so hard he thinks it may break. They’re still talking to him, screaming at him probably, but he can’t hear it. This time instead of gray the world is turning black at the edges.

Maes Mustang suddenly realizes that this is probably dying, he hurts all over and his senses are going away one by one and he’s going to shut his eyes and not wake up again. His last words are going to be about bad cake, and the last thing he will ever see is the two most powerful people in Amestris, the two strongest people he knows crouched on the floor and covered in vomit, looking more horrified and terrified than he’s ever seen anyone look in his nine achingly short years.

Maes’ vision goes completely black just as his neck and the hand he tried so hard to grip his mother’s with go slack. The last thing Maes’ Mustang hears, over even the fog enveloping his brain, is Mom’s horrible, agonized shriek.

“MAES!”

000

“…..you need to prepare yourselves….”

“…..the FUCK is that supposed to……”

……

“…..Brother, oh brother, _please_ ……”

…….

“…….c’mon, buddy, come back…….”

“…….why they hell’d we name him Maes? It’s like we cursed him…….”

“….Cook, how could she? She loves…….”

…….

“…….Maes, please, oh God, _please_ , wake up…….”

“……I should’ve let him stay in Resembool….”

000

000

000

000

Maes opens his eyes.

Everything is dark, and blurry and oddly muffled. His throat is pulled tight and vaguely he thinks it should hurt, it should be absolute agony, but it’s all just a haze instead. Mom’s in a seat by his bed, eyes closed in sleep, her hand still gripping his tightly.

Maes is no stranger to hospitals. He’s been to some of Nijah’s checkups and prosthesis fittings with her before; Shireen has been admitted a few times for her intestinal problems and illnesses. And of course, there was that terrifying time three years ago when Dad had been shot.

Maes is no stranger to hospitals. He is, however, a stranger to being the patient. He feels so weak and achy, his throat and stomach are absolutely _killing_ him, and his head definitely probably weighs an actual ton.

He’s hurt and he’s scared, and boy oh boy does he want his mother. Luckily, she’s not far away.

“Mom,” Maes rasps, struggling to squeeze Mom’s hand. “M-mom.”

Mom’s eyes flash open and automatically dart to the window then the door, before falling on Maes.

“Oh, thank God.” Then somehow Mom’s in bed with him and he’s cuddled in her arms and he’s sobbing and she’s sobbing and they’re both just crying messes when Dad walks in.

“—Ed’s taking Nijah and Trisha back to the hou—Oh thank fucking God.” And then Dad’s crying, too, and Maes is sandwiched between his parents on the tiny hospital bed.

“T-that was s-so scary,” Maes sobs, “I-I thought I w-was dying, and I w-was never gonna see S-sissy and Nijah again e-ever. And you looked s-so scared and it _hurt_ so bad, and m-my last words were gonna b-be about _bad cake_ , who has l-last words a-about _cake_? They should’ve b-been I love you, but I couldn’t _talk_ and t-tell you I love you. I love you. IloveyouIloveyouI--,”

“ _Maes_ \--,” Dad gasps. 

“We know,” Mom says, trying to catch her breath and pulling him in even tighter. “We know, no matter what happens we know. And we love you, too, we love you and your sisters more than any damn thing in the world.”

Maes eventually falls asleep sandwiched between his parents.

He wakes up that way, too.

000

“How’s the squirt doin’?” a familiar voice asks thickly, and Maes fights hard to open his eyes because _Shireen is here_.

“The doctors are a watching for pneumonia since his stomach was pumped, but so far everything is fine. If he keeps improving they think we can take him home at the end of the week.” Dad says, and Maes stops fighting, because Dad and Shireen haven’t talked in almost three whole months, and Maes is a rather curious, meddlesome child.

“Did Armstrong give you any grief for leaving?”

“No, sir. It’s not like she could ignore direct orders from the Fuhrer. And besides, she’s fond of Maes. Everyone is, really.”

Dad sighs. “Shireen, don’t call me ‘sir’. Please, just, please don’t. It was bad enough when your mother had to call me sir, I really don’t think I can bear hearing it from you.”

“But--,”

“I don’t give a damn about rank. I don’t give a damn if we’re fighting, you’re my kid and I’m your dad, and that job is infinitely more important than any other I may end up with in my life. For better or worse, you're stuck with me. Got it?”

“Yeah. I got it.”

Silence for a moment.

“So, it was Cook?” Dad must nod, because Shireen continues. “I just, I really can’t believe it. She loved us, she loved _Maes_ , I mean she was with us for years. Why the hell would she do something like this?”

Dad sighs again. “The poison was for me, not Maes. I gave Maes the cake I was supposed to eat. I just, God, I could see him eyeing it, and he’d been so good and polite that night and I knew he was still pissed we didn’t let him stay with Nijah in Resembool. I thought I was being _nice_.” Dad chokes. “Apparently I killed Cook’s son. During the war, one of the cities I razed, I killed her son. She didn’t even try to run when she realized Maes ate the cake instead, just started sobbing and told us what kind of poison she used. Knowing that probably saved his life, honestly.”

“So she waited ten whole years to get her revenge?”

Maes pictures Dad shrugging. “I mean, you and I, we’d retaliate right away. But some people can wait. They’re patient. They’d wait for years and find their opening, striking for maximum impact. Especially if they feel they have nothing left to lose.”

“People like Mom.”

“Yeah. Just like Mom.”

“How’s she been with all this?”

Dad snorts, “Just as well as the rest of us, I’d say. It’s been a nightmare.” Dad sighs again. “She’ll be glad you’re home, though. It’s always better when everyone is together.”

Silence.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re home, too, Shireen.”

Shireen sighs.

“You going to apologize for real, yet?”

“Nope.”

Shireen scoffs. “What?”

“I’m still not sorry for what I did, so no, I won’t apologize now. Maes says I must wait to apologize to you until I’m honest, because you can ‘sniff out liars like a bloodhound.’”

“He actually said that?”

“He’s an observant kid.”

“I know.”

They both sigh then. Shireen grabs Maes’ hand.

“He was supposed to be the safe one, you know? The shitty stuff wasn’t supposed to touch him, not yet at least. He was supposed to stay good and innocent and happy, and just be a spoiled little brat that everyone fawned over forever. Shit like this isn’t supposed to happen to Maes.”

Shireen’s grip on his hand tightens.

“So you can want that for Maes, but I can’t want that for you?”

“You’ve never known me when I was good and innocent.”

“I very strongly disagree with you, but that’s not the point right now,” Dad says. “Why am I not allowed to keep you safe and happy?”

“Your idea of safe makes me unhappy, Dad. I’m not going to be happy unless I try my strengths and challenge myself--,”

“But _why_? You don’t have to, you could do anything in the world, Shireen--,”

“Why did you want to be Fuhrer?”

Silence for a moment.

“I didn’t want Ishval to happen again. I just—I wanted to stop the corruption and I figured the best way was from the top. I wanted to make this country, the world really, a better place.”

“Is it so hard to believe I want to do that, too? Is it so hard to believe that I want to be like you, Dad? That I want to impress you and make you proud and try to make the world a better place?”

Dad chuckles.

“God, damn it, don’t _laugh_ at me, fuck you, I’m pouring my heart out here and--,”

“No, no, Shireen, no, I just. _Shireen_ ,” Dad says softly. “I’ve been trying to impress you and make you proud since the day I met you, kiddo. I value your approval over anyone else’s in the world.”

It’s not an apology, not really, but for Dad and Shireen it might as well be. And when Shireen lets go of Maes’ hand, and Maes hears soft footsteps and sniffles, he knows they’re finally hugging.

“About time! I’ve been waiting ages for this,” Maes rasps, opening his eyes with a grin.

“You little _shit.”_

But then Shireen hugs him and kisses him nearly to death as Dad watches on with a smile. It’s just her way of saying I love you.

000

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is it. The moment you’ve been waiting for, the crème de la crème, the race of the day. This one’s for all the marbles. Father is pitted against daughter, sister against brother, for our grand prize of a sense of pride and accomplishment and the 500 cens I found in Dad’s jacket pocket!” Shireen announces to the children of the ward excitedly lining the hallways.

“On Team Oh-shoot-where’s-my-leg, we have actual angel Nijah Khadem-Mustang getting a launch from none other than the Fullmetal Alchemist, Hero of the People, Edward Elric!” Shireen cries dramatically, eliciting shocked gasps and applause from the children watching.

“And, for Team Perfect-little-third-child, we’ve got the infinitely cooler than her father, Daughter of Fullmetal, Trisha Elric pushing the newest and greatest hero of Amestris, Maes ‘I foiled an assassination attempt on the Fuhrer, what have you done with your life’ Mustang!”

Maes is proud to note his and Trisha’s team gets even louder applause than their opponents.

“Racers at the ready.” Shireen says solemnly. Ed and Trisha line Nijah and Maes’ chairs up at the tape.

“On your mark. Get set.” Shireen raises her pillowcase flag high in the air. “GO!” she shouts, dropping the pillowcase.

“GO MAES!” Trisha shouts, shoving his wheelchair as hard as she can. Maes lets out a whoop and gets his hand on the wheels, propelling himself forward as quickly as he can, Nijah laughing along beside him.

The race isn’t very long, but by the end Maes is exhausted, and he knows Nijah is, too. They roll past Shireen, the finish line, slapping her hands as they pass her, the children and Trisha and Ed shouting all along the way.

“It’s too close to call!”

“No it was Maes--,”

“Definitely Nijah--,”

“That’s called a photo finish.”

“But who took the photo?”

“IT’S A TIE!” Shireen shouts diplomatically, grinning widely as she hands Nijah and Maes each 250 cens.

“How cliché,” Maes mutters, smile on his face.

“Well, at least you didn’t beat me this time,” Nijah says happily.

“Whoa, hey no, this doesn’t go against my perfect record. I’ve still always beat you in our races.” Maes complains.

“Our next footrace, you’ll be eating my dust. Just wait til you see the beautiful leg Winry made me. I wish I could use it now,” Nijah gushes.

“Well right now, I think everyone should be eating dinner. And someone,” Dad says, walking into the ward and looking pointedly at Maes, “should still be in bed.”

The children in the halls stop their shouting, mouths open in disbelief. It’s not every day you get a visit from the Fuhrer of Amestris.

Well, Maes supposes, unless you’re his child.

“Way to kill the mood Colonel Bastard,” Ed mutters. Maes is quite glad no matter how powerful Dad gets, as long as Ed’s around that nickname will never, ever die.

000

They all return to Maes’ room and eat wonderful smelling Xingese takeout from the containers, whilst Maes is left to sip the weak broth that is all the doctors think his stomach can currently handle.

Maes pouts, and Mom hands him a fortune cookie.

“They’re bland enough, I think,” Mom says with a wink.

Mom is awesome.

Maes cracks open the fortune and reads the slip of paper as he sucks on the cookie.

“ _You don’t need strength to let go of something. What you need is understanding._ ” Maes reads aloud to the room. “Lucky numbers 2, 10, 19, 23, 35, 41. Huh. Well that’s a nice thought, I guess. I kinda wish they would be actual fortunes though, you know? Like, ‘avoid chocolate cake on Thursdays’ all those great warnings that are applicable to real life.”

Trisha laughs, but nobody else does. Too, too, too soon, Maes supposes.

“Hey Shireen,” Dad says suddenly, eyes wide like he’s just had an epiphany. “Shireen, don’t go back to Briggs.”

Shireen looks affronted. “Dad, _seriously_? You want me to _desert_? Are you kidding me, were you just humoring me with all that progress and understand and shit I thought we made?”

“Language, Shireen,” Mom chides.

“No, I wasn’t. Shireen, go study, get your certification. Be a state alchemist.” Dad says firmly, eyes bright.

Shireen’s fork drops on the floor with a clang.

“Are you shitting me right now?”

“Shireen,” Mom says warningly, but she’s got a smile on her face.

“You—Dad, are you serious? Will you really? God, I wrote that one off the minute you became Fuhrer, I knew you’d never sign the approval for me to take the exam. You—you’ll really approve me? You’ll let me do it?”

“I mean, you still have to pass, Shireen it’s not a given.” But even Dad is grinning.

Ed snorts. “Mustang, you forget _I_ was her teacher. Shireen could pass that exam in her sleep.”

“Oh, Sissy, you’d be such wonderful state alchemist, you’re so good at it already. And then you could be stationed in Central and come visit us all the time and you’d get one of those cool pocket watches like Dad and--,”

Shireen’s smile is so big and wide and beautiful Maes can’t see her scar.


	4. Maybe baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Maes is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literal fluff. It may rot your teeth. I regret nothing.

1923 – East City

“Riza, how are you my dear?” the Fuhrer gushes over the phone.

Riza rolls her eyes. “I’m doing well, sir. What about--,”

“No, no, no, absolutely not. My darling, I am first and foremost your grandfather, and we’ve missed out on enough time together as it is. There are no ‘sirs’ here.”

Riza rolls her eyes again. “Yes si—Grandfather. It’s nice to hear from you. Can I help you with anything?”

Grumman lets out a dramatic sigh, “My dear, it has been entirely too long since we’ve last seen each other. You and Mustang have been ignoring me for Ishval and the East--,”

“You stationed us here, Grandfather--,”

“And it’s been six months, yet I still haven’t had the chance to spoil my dear, sweet great-grandchildren. Who would’ve thought, me, a _great-grandfather_? I certainly never expected to live this long and now--,”

“Are you saying you’d like to visit, Grandfather?”

Riza can nearly see Grumman’s smirk, all the way from Central.

“Precisely, my dear. Precisely. I was thinking the end of the month, arrive on the 27th and stay until the 3rd, do my inspections of the base whilst I’m there. Does that work for you and your lovely family, my darling?”

Riza’s nearly positive her eyes will come unhinged from all this rolling.

“Yes, yes I believe it should,” she says, lifting her completed paperwork to check the desk calendar beneath.

“The 27th you--,” Riza begins, but she stops, observing her calendar, the month of November laid out before.

Nijah has a piano lessons. Shireen has joined a school play, Grumman may be able to catch one of the performances. The girls have Ishvalan classes on Sundays, both have doctors’ appointments the 14th, Ms. Marilyn is coming over for tea the 12th, Roy’s birthday falls on the 20th, but—

For the whole month of November, there is no black dot.

Quickly, Riza flips back to October, but she knows what she’ll see. Or, what she won’t.

She nearly rips the month of October off the calendar to look at September, to look back at the thick black dot she’d penned in the corner of the box for September 3rd.

And it’s November 9th.

Riza chokes on air, and begins coughing instantly.

“Riza,” Grumman says worriedly, finally sounding genuine, “Riza, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she gasps, coughing once more and reaching for the glass of water on her desk with trembling hands. She takes a gulp, then takes a breath before speaking again.

“Grandfather, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to leave now; I’ll transfer you to my subordinate, he’ll give me the details,” and before Grumman can respond Riza presses the transfer button.

“Jeffries, my grandfather is on the phone, planning a visit. I’m late for a meeting, please pass along my apologies and take the details. I’m going to be out the rest of the afternoon,” Riza relays hurriedly.

“Yes, Lt. Colonel. I’ll see you Monday, sir, and give you the details then.” The earnest young voice says. Riza collects her coat and hangs up her phone, exiting the office with a grin when she hears the cracking voice yelp:

“Your Excellency! You’re the Lt. Colonel’s—? Yes sir, of course sir, my goodness I am so sorry,” and panicked green eyes meet Riza’s as she walks out the door.

“Send along my love, Private,” Riza says with a grin, not feeling too sorry. It is Friday, and now Jeffries has a rather excellent story from work to tell his friends this weekend.

Riza, on the other hand, now has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.

And she’s very, very late.

000

“Well, Lt. Colonel, please allow me to be the first to give you my congratulations,” Dr. Collins says, bright smile on her face.

Riza gapes at her.

“You—you’re serious. This is—really?” Riza whispers, shocked. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be, it is still a bit early but—yes, Lt. Colonel, you’re pregnant. A little over two months along.”

Hearing the words aloud seems to unlock something in Riza’s throat, and she exhales loudly.

“Wow.”

The doctor’s smile falls, her face growing serious. “Sir, if this is….problematic, you do have some opt--,”

“No,” Riza replies quickly, “No, no, doctor, I’m just a bit--,” Stunned. Shocked. Shaken, floored, amazed. “Surprised. I’m surprised. I honestly thought I wasn’t able.” Riza explains, and it’s true. Because before they’d been married, Roy and Riza had been very careful. And after they got married they weren’t.

Either way, Riza never ended up pregnant.

They don’t really talk about it, didn’t really worry about it. Riza had once been rather leery of motherhood anyway; how could a girl who’d grown up motherless ever be a good mother? And Roy, well he simply told her all he’d ever need to be happy was her. She couldn’t help but agree, back then. Riza hadn’t known if she wanted children or not, and it seemed like the universe had made the decision for her.

Then, of course, they met Shireen and Nijah, and Riza discovered the universe simply had a different path to motherhood in mind.

But _this_?

This is beyond unexpected.

Riza is thirty-three years old; it’s not really too old to have a child, but it is far above the average for carrying one’s first child. Hell, Winry’s just months away from having her _third_ baby and she’s nine years Riza’s junior.

The doctor beams at her. “Surprising things happen every day, Lt. Colonel Hawkeye. Congratulations on your little miracle.”

Her little miracle.

The thought makes Riza smile.

000

“Lights out, Shireen,” Riza says firmly, tucking the quilt around her.

Shireen pouts. “But Mo-om,” she whines. Six months on and the word still makes Riza’s stomach swoop happily. “No school tomorrow, it’s Saturday. And the story’s just getting good!”

“Then I suppose you have something to look forward to tomorrow,” Riza says wryly, kissing Shireen’s head before setting Shireen’s book on the table and turning out the lamp. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart. I love you.”

Shireen doesn’t protest. Just yawns and lays down under the purple quilt. “Love you, too, Mom.”

Riza enters the hallway and watches Roy quietly exit Nijah’s room, shutting the door until it’s three-fourths of the way closed, just as Nijah likes it. He puts a finger to his lips, squishing his grin as he grabs Riza’s hand and drags her down the hall on tiptoes.

“I didn’t say goodnight to Nijah yet,” Riza complains, pulling half-heartedly to go back.

“Well, our dear sweet Nijah is sound asleep, because I am rather fantastic at telling bedtime stories, and between you and me I’d like to keep her that way,” Roy says with a happy smile. Nijah’s taken to sleeping in their bed lately, suffering alternatingly from bad dreams and bouts of insomnia. The fact that she’s fallen asleep so quickly tonight is a good sign.

“The story was probably so boring and dry you put her to sleep,” Riza offers, but Roy keeps on grinning.

“I don’t even care, she’s out like a light. I love the kid, but I rather miss sleeping through the night without being kicked or punched awake.”

Shireen can curl up a ball, sleep for nine hours, and wake up in the exact same position.

Nijah looks like she’s making snow angels every time she falls asleep.

“Alright,” Riza concedes, squeezing Roy’s hand and going down the stairs with him to their kitchen.

Roy lets go of her hand and goes to the cupboard, grabbing a couple glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Oh—no, I don’t want any tonight.” Roy shrugs and pours a glass for himself, leaning lazily against the counter as he sips. He’s still dressed in his uniform, but his coat is off, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His hair is rumpled and wild, probably from sitting in Nijah’s bed with her as he read the story, and his lips, still sipping the wine, tilt up in a grin as he sees her staring.

Goddamn her husband is attractive.

And Nijah sharing their bed hasn’t just kept them from sleep.

Riza shakes her head, clearing her thoughts before looking at Roy again. “So, how was your day?”

Roy shrugs. “Fine. Had a lot of paperwork to catch up on, Fuery isn’t anywhere near as good as you at keeping me motivated to finish it. Got it all done though. Oh, and Ed called, said Al and May are coming to Resembool in January, planning to stay a few months. Apparently the Elric brothers want to write a book.” Roy rolls his eyes fondly, “More like Al will write a book and Ed will incoherently shout out a million different ideas at him at once, but I imagine the end result will be rather informative.”

“That’s nice. Al and May can be there when the new baby is born.”

“Hell, I forgot about that. Two kids feels like a handful already and ours are even older than Ed and Winry’s. I can’t imagine adding a newborn to that mix. It’d probably be like drowning.” Roy snorts.

Well shit.

Riza decides to blame her irrational urge to cry on hormones.

“How was your day?” Roy asks, and Riza shakes her head again.

“Fine. Grumman called, though, said he wants to visit us at the end of the month. He’s very excited to meet Nijah and Shireen.”

“He planning on having an inspection of the East then, too?” Roy asks. Riza nods.

“Well, the heads up is nice. We’ll be ready.” Roy tilts his head curiously. “Are you alright?”

Because Riza is glaring at the apples in the bowl on the table, covering her mouth with her hand as she jiggles her knee. And suddenly Roy is there, sitting in the chair next to her and settling a gentle hand on her knee, stopping the shaking.

“What’s wrong, Riza?”

Riza doesn’t know the last time she’s been this nervous. Which is ridiculous, honestly, because Roy will be shocked, yes, just like she was, but he won’t be _angry_. He’ll be happy, excited even, just as she is, and the comment he made earlier about three kids, she knows he didn’t mean it. She wonders idly if this is the kind of nervous he felt right before he asked her to marry him. Confident, yet terrified.

Because it’s still a change. A good change, a wonderful one, but still a change. And their life has been full of so many wonderful yet drastic changes lately, Riza feels a bit bad for adding another. Although, it really is Roy’s doing as much as it’s Riza’s and—

“Nothing’s wrong, Roy. I’m pregnant.”

She says it evenly, simply, meeting his soft gaze as she speaks the words.

Roy’s breath catches.

“You—You’re—Really?” He whispers, hand on her knee tightening, eyes wide. Riza nods, lips turning up slightly at the corners.

“Really?” She nods again, and lets out a little laugh. “Oh, _Riza_.”

Endearments flow easily in their home now, because surely, a person can’t meet Nijah and Shireen and not want to call them honey and sweetheart and darling. They are all of those things and more, and they deserve to hear it often.

They do hear it often.

But Roy doesn’t call his wife any of those things. Her name is enough. Because, after so many years of not being able to use it, her name is more than just an endearment. It’s a prayer. It’s a promise.

“Riza,” He says again, lifting his hand off her knee and using it to cup her head. He has tears in his eyes, but his mouth is turned up in an achingly sweet smile. Riza bites her lip to hold in a sob.

“Think we can handle it?” Riza asks, and regrets it immediately as she watches the smile disappear.

“Shit, Riza, shit, I’m so sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean that, I--,”

But she laughs. “I know. I know you didn’t. Timing’s a bit funny, though.”

“It won’t be like drowning, Riza. It’ll be like flying,” Roy says keenly, eyes wide.

And really, Riza has no choice but to kiss him after that.

000

“Daddy, is she _dead_?” Riza hears a young voice whisper worriedly.

Roy chuckles.

“No, Nijah, Mommy’s not dead. C’mon, let her sleep, I’ll go make breakfast.”

“But Dad, Mom gets up at six o’clock _every single morning_.” Shireen counters in hushed tones. Riza figures they must be huddled at the doorway of the bedroom. “It’s almost ten o’clock!”

Damn. Roy must’ve turn off her alarm clock.

Riza flips herself over with a groan, and rubs a hand over her tired eyes before sitting up.

“I’m not dead, I promise. Daddy just kept me up late.” Roy smirks at her devilishly over the girls’ heads. Nijah, who hasn’t yet put on her leg, crutches herself over before attempting to pull herself up on the bed. Riza grabs her torso and drags her into her lap, letting the crutches fall to the floor.

“Well, that’s not nice, Daddy,” Nijah harrumphs, and Riza snorts, running her hand gently through Nijah’s still bedraggled white hair.

“Are you sick or something?” Shireen asks, eyes wide and anxious.

Roy wraps an arm around Shireen’s shoulder and meets Riza’s gaze. She hadn’t planned on telling the girls about the baby until later; it would be agony to get their hopes up and take it all away if something went wrong.

But Riza sees the fear in her daughter’s eyes, fear borne of losing too much already, and knows that Shireen won’t let this anomaly today go without a decent explanation. And by the looks of it, Roy agrees with her.

“No, Shireen, I’m not sick,” Riza says, patting the bed next to her. Roy and Shireen join them there. “Daddy and I do have some pretty big news to share, though.”

“Are we getting one of those ponies from Uncle Jean’s farm?” Nijah gasps, clutching Riza’s arm. Riza looks down at her with confusion as Shireen and Roy laugh.

“Nijah, you silly goose, where would we even put a pony? We live in the city,” Roy asks, smiling.

“And what does a pony have to do with Mommy being tired?” Shireen questions. Nijah shrugs.

“I dunno, we just saw the ponies last weekend, and Uncle Jean said we could buy one. Maybe it could live there still. Gettin’ pony would be real big news, I think,” Nijah explains, lips in a pout.

If she and Roy don’t watch it, this girl will end up very spoiled.

“Well, we aren’t getting a pony. But how would you feel about a new baby instead?” Riza asks.

The reactions are interesting, in the fact that they are the opposite of what Riza expected.

“Oh, Mom, _really_?” Shireen gushes, mouth open and eyes wide. “Truly? You-you’re having a baby?” The happy smile on Shireen’s face leaves Riza breathless, so she just nods. “I-I’m so happy, I’m so _happy_ for you, this is so exciting!” Shireen very nearly squeals. Her red eyes are welling with tears as she leans forward to hug Riza’s side. Riza has to let go of Nijah to wipe her own tears away.

“What do you think, Nijah?” Roy asks. He sounds like he has a head cold. “Are you excited to be a big sister like Shireen?”

Because Nijah, sweet little, excitable, talkative Nijah has been completely silent.

“I’m real happy for you, Mommy,” Nijah finally says, ignoring Roy’s question and giving Riza the fakest smile she’s ever seen cross her lovely face. “You’re gonna have the luckiest baby in the world.”

And Nijah extracts herself from Riza’s arms, slides down the floor to pick up her crutches, and leaves the room.

“Is she really that mad about the pony?” Roy asks hesitatingly, looking worriedly out the door.

“I don’t—I’m not sure,” Shireen says, and shit, not even Shireen knows what this is about. “Nijah’s never like this.”

“Well, I’ll go talk to her,” Riza says firmly, sliding out of bed and grabbing her housecoat from the hook. “Why don’t the two of you get started on breakfast?”

She leaves before they respond. She really doesn’t want them to see the new tears welling in her eyes.

Damn hormones.

000

Riza pads down the hall in her slippers, and reaches Nijah’s room with little ceremony.

“Nijah, may I come in?” Riza asks, knocking quietly on the door.

“Y-yeah, that’s fine.” Nijah stutters, her voice thick. Riza walks in to see Nijah wiping her eyes quickly. Her suitcase is open on the bed, completely filled with her stuffed animals and dolls.

Nijah wants to _run away_ because of the baby? Damn, Riza really misjudged this situation.

“Are you going on a trip, Nijah?” Riza asks, sitting on the bed and picking up her stuffed elephant, Rosie, who fell from the overloaded case.

Nijah looks up at her in confusion, “Well, no. I’m going back to the Children’s home, Mommy.”

Riza has to bite in her lip to hold back the sob. She reaches across the bed to grab Nijah’s hand.

“Why, honey?”

“Mommy I don’t _want_ to leave,” Nijah says, pulling her hand away and looking out the window, eyes watering. “But Terry Bixby said, he said kids only get adopted ‘cause the people come to the home who can’t have babies of their own, so they adopted kids so they can be mommies and daddies. And now you and Daddy will have your own _real_ baby, so you don’t need me and Shireen to be a mommy and a daddy anymore. So now we…we have to go.”

Riza’s pretty sure she can _hear_ it as her heart splinters apart and the shards fall to the floor.

Then, she contemplates the repercussions of punching a ten-year-old orphan boy in the nose.

“No, no, no, _Nijah,_ ” Riza says, rushing around the bed and falling to her knees, holding Nijah’s head in her hands and looking her in the eye. “Nijah, you and Shireen, you are my real babies, you’ll always be my real babies, and I’m always, always, always going to need you.”

“So we’re stayin’?” Nijah asks hesitantly, sniffing.

Riza nods quickly. “Nijah, you’re stuck with me and Daddy for a long, long time. Forever at least.” And Nijah lets out a small giggle. Riza pulls her in for a hug, and they don’t say anything as Riza feels Nijah’s tears soak the shoulder of her housecoat.

“Daddy and I love you forever and like you for always,” Riza whispers into her hair.

“I love you more.” Nijah responds, digging her head into Riza’s shoulder.

Riza finally smiles. “Impossible. I love you most.”

Nijah looks up and beams. “Nu-uh, Mommy, I love you more than most!”

000

Riza makes it through breakfast, is able to wait until the girls are dressed and rush outside to the yard to play fetch with Hayate before completely breaking down.

“She thought _what?”_ Roy snarls into Riza’s hair, holding her close, “Are you fucking shitting me? She thought we were going to take them _back_? Fuck.”

“Hush, Roy, you can’t use words like that when they could hear you.”

Roy ignores her.

“Goddamnit, but why—why did Nijah think Shireen was so happy then?”

Riza shrugs. She’d wondered the same thing until she asked Nijah. “She said Shireen had her ‘real, real, extra happy’ smile on, and Nijah figured she just didn’t know they’d have to go back. She didn’t want to spoil it then and make Shireen’s smile go away.”

Roy pulls away from Riza and goes to the phone.

“Roy, what are you doing?” she asks curiously as he dials.

“Calling Havoc.”

000

Nijah names her pony Daisy.

“It’s good for her,” Roy explains, trying to justify the outrageous gift to Riza and Shireen (and himself). “She won’t be able to play all the sports and games as easily as the other kids because of her leg. This is a good alternative.”

“It’s like she’s Little Orphan Hannie from that radio serial,” Shireen says, smile on her face, shaking her head in disbelief as they watch Nijah and Daisy go in circles in the tiny paddock. “Just how rich are you, Daddy Mustang?” Shireen asks, smirking up at Roy.

Roy sputters.

Riza doesn’t stop laughing for a long, long time. 

000

“Shireen, my darling, your work as Villager Number 3 was _inspired_ , simply inspired. I am in awe of your talent. The emotions you were able to convey with just a few words certainly left me breathless, please, my dear, would you grace us with your work once more?”

“I would like three eggs.” Shireen deadpans to the Fuhrer of Amestris.

Riza fails to hold in her snort.

“You have a future on the stage, dearest Shireen,” Grumman sniffs, using a finger to wipe nonexistent tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Do you need a tissue, Mr. Grandpa Fuhrer Grumman, sir?” Nijah asks from where she’s settled in Roy’s arms. “You sure do sniff a lot.”

This time Roy doesn’t hold in the snort.

“You’re too kind, lovely Nijah, but I assure you I’m fine, just fine.” Nijah crinkles her nose, just as she has all night long since she was first introduced to the Fuhrer, very confused and completely unsure what to make of the man.

It’s rather adorable.

“Alright, kiddos, time for bed. Go put your pajamas on, Daddy and I will be up to say goodnight soon.” Riza announces, and Roy sets Nijah down to let get up the stairs with Shireen.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir?” Roy asks Grumman.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Mustang. Just not too, much, I’m not quite as young as I once was.” Roy grins and nods, going to the kitchen. It leaves just Riza and Grumman in the living room. Riza takes a seat on the sofa, as Grumman traverses the room.

“What a lovely photo,” Grumman says, walking over to the wall where their family portrait hangs, taken just a month after the adoption had been finalized. Nijah is settled on Roy’s hip in the picture, and Shireen stands in the middle of Roy and Riza. The girls have matching pretty blue dresses on, and all four wear wide smiles.

“Thank you, Grandfather. We have a few extra copies, if you’d like one.” Grumman beams.

“I’d like that very much. They’re really very sweet girls, Riza. You and Mustang have done a good thing.”

Riza shakes her head. “They’ve done more for us than we could ever do for them.”

Grumman grins again. “Yes, I’ve noticed that, too.”

Then Roy’s back in the room, handing Grumman a tumbler of scotch. He and Riza excuse themselves to say goodnight to the girls before returning to the living room, where Grumman has settled himself on the armchair. Roy and Riza take a seat on the couch, and Roy snaps his fingers, lighting a fire in the grate.

“So, you want to tell us why you’re really here, sir?” Roy asks wryly, looking Grumman in the eye.

Grumman grins. “I truly did want to meet Shireen and Nijah. But yes, I do have something to discuss with the two of you.” Grumman sighs. “I’m an old, tired man. I’m getting much too old for this job, Mustang. Retirement is on the horizon, and I’d like you to be my successor.”

Silence.

“What happened to turning Amestris into a democracy?” Roy finally asks, voice hard.

Grumman shrugs. “I have no problem with that, it makes sense in the long run, and we have given real legislative power back to the Senate the past few years. But truly creating a government of the people, by the people and for the people that can last is going to take time and effort which I really don’t have left to give.”

“Are you sick?” Riza asks.

 “No, no just old, my dear. Just old. What do you say, Mustang?” Grumman asks, looking to Roy once again. “I’d like begin the process of retirement by the end of next year. If it really bothers you so much, we can have you nominated and confirmed by the Senate, but nobody’s going to oppose you, you know that. You’re a war hero.”

“And if I say no?” Roy asks, face indifferent.

Grumman shrugs again. “I’d probably go to General Armstrong next.”

Roy’s eyes go wide, and he looks at Riza.

“He’ll do it,” Riza responds.

“Riza!” Roy yelps, and Grumman chuckles.

“Roy, this is everything we’ve ever worked for, handed to us on a silver platter, and you’re saying _no_?” Riza says incredulously. “We’ve worked too damn hard to stop now.”

“But things are different now, and you--,”

“Grandfather, by the by, I’m having a baby. It’s due in May.”

Grumman’s eyes go a bit wide, but he smiles happily. “Well, that’s just lovely. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Riza says, and she turns to Roy. “Roy, we can do this, it’s still over a year away before you’d be Fuhrer. It will be difficult, yes, but our _entire_ lives have been difficult. We can handle this. We can do this. You can do this. For better or worse, remember?”

Roy laughs a little, then smiles at her. “Yeah. For better or worse. I guess now we’re getting to all the best things, huh?” He turns to Grumman. “Sir, I’d be honored to be your successor.”

“Well that’s a relief. Between you and me, General Armstrong rather scares me.” Grumman says with a shudder.

Roy and Riza just grin.

The best things indeed. 

000

It’s nearing the end of December when General Mustang calls Lt. Colonel Hawkeye into his office.

“You summoned me, sir?” Riza asks drolly as she stands before his desk.

“Take a seat, Lt. Colonel.” He says seriously, before standing to pace. Riza takes a deep breath and refrains from rolling her eyes. She hasn’t been his direct subordinate for two years, not since they got married, but every officer in the East technically reports to the General.

Who also happens to be her husband.

It gets weird sometimes.

“It’s been brought to my attention that you are with child--,” and Roy does his level best to make it even weirder. Riza snorts.

“I’m so sorry, sir, please continue.” Roy glares at her.

“Anyway, you’re having a baby. Rather unfortunately, we suffer from a distinct lack of female officers in this country’s military. And the female officers we do have haven’t yet begun families. So, when it comes to the logistics having a child, most specifically the terms of leave, there is no precedent.

“Which, of course, means you’ll be setting the precedent.” Roy continues to pace, avoiding her gaze. “So, obviously, it’s very important we get it right with you, Lt. Colonel. We must send a message to the women of our military that our organization is both fair and compassionate. Allowing you enough time for leave is imperative to the well-being of not just our female officers and our military, but our country as a whole.”

Roy stops pacing. Riza tilts her head and stares at him questioningly.

“So, the fate of the country rests on me taking enough maternity leave?” Riza asks sardonically.

Roy sighs, and sits down in the seat next to her. “Riza, look, I know how strong and capable you are. I know you could handle working ‘til the day the baby is born and probably come back the day after. I know you can, I know. But, really, why if you don’t have to? We can afford you going on leave, certainly, and there’s nothing pressing going on in your office. That Major of yours has been itching for months for some more responsibility, and the girls would love you being home, you know they would. And, obviously, I don’t know what it’s like to grow a human being inside of me, but it sounds very difficult and absolutely exhausting, and really why add any more stress on top of that?” Roy says quickly.

“Maybe just a few more weeks, they you go off, take leave until four or five months after the baby’s born?” Roy asks, his face scrunching up in a wince as though waiting for Riza to explode.

Instead, Riza pulls a form out of the folder in her hands and sets it on Roy’s lap.

“What’s this?” Roy asks, finally opening his eyes.

Riza gives him a small grin. “I filled it out this morning, after I realized I’m not going to be able to fit into my uniform much longer. Sign that medical leave form, and my last day is the 31st. If it’s all the same to you, I was planning on six months after the baby is born.”

Roy takes a moment to study the nearly completed form, eyes wide.

“Well, that’s—huh. That was much easier than I expected.”

000

At the end of January, the Elric brothers stop by for a visit.

“Lt. Colonel!” Alphonse says happily when she opens the door, pulling her into a hug, “Oh goodness, you look so lovely, congratulations! You’re absolutely glowing!” Al’s really the only person she’s met who can say that and sound genuine. So Riza smiles back.

“For goodness’ sake, Al, you really must call me Riza, you weren’t even ever in the military! You boys are family.” Riza says firmly, and Al smiles that wonderful smile with the dimple on his left cheek. “Come in, come in.” she says, ushering the boys into the sitting room.

“Hey squirts!” Ed shouts when he spies Shireen and Nijah playing a board game with Roy at the coffee table.

“UNCLE ED!” the girls squeal, rushing to give Edward hugs.

“It’s so good to see you, Uncle Ed, we missed you so much, you--,” Nijah begins, before her red eyes rest on the other brother in the doorway. Her mouth drops open.

“Oh, yeah, hey, Shireen, Nijah, this is my little brother--,”

“Alphonse Elric.” Nijah whispers, eyes going wide. “Y-you’re Al.”

Al frowns. “Oh, um, yes I am, and you must be Nijah--,” Al begins, holding out his hand.

“Alphonse Elric knows my name!” Nijah squeals, and if she could, Riza knows she’d be jumping up and down. “Mommy, Daddy, _Alphonse_ knows my name!”

“Yes, Nijah, Mommy and I have known Ed and Al for a long time, since they weren’t much older than you are now,” Roy tries to explain, but Nijah is having none of it.

“I know, but Alphonse knows _my_ name,” Nijah whispers, and she looks like she’s about to faint. Ed and Shireen are about to die from holding back laughter. Al looks terrified.

“Erm--,” Al begins.

“Nijah’s a bit of a fan of the Fullmetal Alchemist radio show,” Riza explains, and Al’s eyes go wide in realization. “You just happen to be her favorite character.”

“And Uncle Ed _spoiled_ the ending for me, told me you got your body back and all, but that’s okay because now you’re _real_ and I know you. This is amazing!” Nijah screeches, gripping Al’s forearms. “You’re nice and kind, but super tough and strong and brave. What’s your favorite food? Do you like kittens still? Do you have any kittens? We don’t have cats, but we have Hayate, and I have a pony and--,”

“She has a _pony_?” Ed mouths to Roy, and Riza can’t hold back her laugh.

“Nijah, honey, Ed and Al will be here all weekend, don’t overwhelm Al with your questions now.”

“But Mommy, I have _so_ many questions.” Nijah gushes.

“There’s a Fullmetal Alchemist radio show?” Al asks. “Who on earth wrote that?”

“We think it’s Breda, but he won’t admit to anything.” Roy says with a grin. “The success of the show, however, has coincided with a new and rather expensive taste in cars.”

000

Ed and Al settle in, then spend the rest of the day doing research for their book at the East City Library. They return for dinner, during which Al is incessantly pestered by Nijah, but he takes it well, all things considered. Shireen and Nijah go to bed not long after dinner is finished, and the adults relax themselves in the sitting room.

“So, Fuhrer Mustang, huh? Guess I owe you that 520 cens,” Ed says with a smirk, and Roy’s eyes widen.

“Who the hell told you about that? We haven’t announced anything, what--,”

“Sheesh, calm down, Fuery told me. You don’t have some horrible leak, Mustang. Congrats though, I’m happy for you.”

Roy rubs a hand down his face and sighs. “Thanks. Thank you. I'd have preferred to tell you myself, though.”

Ed shrugs. “I knew it would happen at some point. It’s not like this is a surprise.”

Only Riza can tell how much Roy appreciates Ed’s words.

“How did your research go today, boys?” Riza asks. Ed sighs.

“Eh, didn’t really find what we were looking for.” Al rolls his eyes.

“We have all the information we need already, brother, you’re just getting cold feet--,”

“Al, it’s weird. I feel like this chapter will tank our credibility--,”

“It’s fact, brother, we lived it, there are plenty of cultures who--,”

“What are you talking about?” Roy asks, puzzled.

This time Al sighs. “ _I_ would like to include a chapter about souls and soul alchemy in our book, but Ed is hesitant to do so,” Al explains. “We were hoping to find some more sources in the East City library, but we weren’t very successful.”

“Why the hesitation?” Riza asks, “If any people are authorities on soul alchemy, it’s the two of you.”

Al look pointedly at Ed. Ed rolls his eyes.

“Maybe getting their opinion on this will help, brother,” Al says.

“Yeah, I guess.” Ed concedes. “Well the two of us can agree that the soul exists, that it is a quantifiable entity and it can live beyond the human body because, well, _obviously_.” Ed explains, with a pointed look at Al. “However, during his time living in Xing, Alphonse here has become _religious_ , and has now come to accept the Xingese belief of _reincarnation_ ,” Ed says snidely.

Al rolls his eyes. “It really makes a lot of sense brother. If we truly believe in the law of equivalent exchange, and the fact that matter is not created or destroyed, just changed, why is it so difficult to believe that there are a finite number of souls in the universe, that life is a wheel that goes on continuously, different bodies with a new version of the same soul after death?”

Huh. Well that’s….interesting.

“And it’s not just the Xingese, Ishvalans believe in a version of reincarnation as well.” Ed rolls his eyes again.

“Why such disdain, Fullmetal? You’ve never been one to knock a theory until it’s completely proven wrong,” Roy says.

Al sighs. “Ed doesn’t appreciate my most recent example.”

“It’s not an example!” Ed says angrily. “It’s a guess, a hypothesis maybe. You don’t know anything for sure, that’s why it’s so pointless to put this in the book. And there’s never going to be any way to prove it, you’re just being ridiculous!”

“What are you talking about?” Riza asks softly.

“Dear Alphonse is convinced that my wife is pregnant with the reincarnated soul of our mother.” Ed says angrily. “It’s preposterous and senseless and—hell you don’t even know it’s going to be a girl! It’s so stupid.”

“Ed, it’s more complex than that, it’s not like I think Mom is going to pop out of Winry next month,” Al explains crossly. “Just because it’s the same soul doesn’t mean it’s the same person. Everyone changes and grows based on experiences, and souls do the same thing, it’s not like she’d _remember_ being Mom. She’ll be your daughter, and my niece. I just, ever since I got out of the armor I’ve had this, this link to people’s souls, and Winry’s baby has such a familiar chi, it’s impossible to ignore, Ed.

“And don’t you realize, if what I’m saying is true we’ve all been someone else before, this circle of life and death for thousands of years? Developing knowledge and instincts and fears and strengths? It’s not just your daughter, she’s just the most direct example.

“And anyway, that’s not what I’m trying to prove, my theory is about soul families, and soul mates, and the fact that souls inevitably find themselves interacting and drawn to the same souls over each incarnation.”

“Like twin flames?” Riza asks hesitatingly, and Ed and Al look over at her in wonder. Roy looks very confused.

“Yes, yes, exactly like that. Have you studied souls before, Riza?” Al asks, looking surprised.

Riza shakes her head. “Oh no, my mother told me the story when I was young.”

“What did she say?” Ed questions.

“Just the standard story about the earliest human beings. How they were said to have two faces, and four arms and four legs. The gods split them in half, and humans today all ended up divided--,”

“Continuously searching for that other half they were separated from eons ago,” Al finishes. “Yes, that’s the story. And every person has a match--,”

“A person whose fire in the soul matches your own.” Riza says. “My mother said if I ever found him, he’d make my heart sing. And for better or worse, I shouldn’t let him go.”

She smiles at Roy and grips his hand.

“I always wondered where that came from,” Roy says, gripping her hand back tightly. “Well, if that’s all true, I’m glad I found you so quickly.”

Al audibly awws.

“This is getting sickeningly sweet, and it proves absolutely nothing.” Ed complains.

“Brother,” Al gasps, sounding scandalized, “it proves everything!”

000

On the Elrics’ last morning in town, Riza wakes up early to find Alphonse in the kitchen already, sipping coffee.

“Good morning, Riza,” Al says happily.

“Morning, Al.” They sit in silence for a bit, Al drinking his coffee, Riza drinking her tea, comfortable to simply be with each other and greet the morning together. Until—

“Alphonse, you said Winry’s baby has a familiar chi,” Riza begins, and Al sighs.

“And you’d like to know if your baby’s chi is familiar to me as well?” Al guesses. Riza nods.

“Riza, do you really want to open this can of worms?” Al asks, seriously. “I didn’t expect the reaction I got when I told Ed, I figured he’d be happy but…It is a bit of a difficult thing to wrap one’s mind around, now that I really think about it. It’s important that you understand, no matter what, your baby is your baby. They may have the same soul as the ones who came before but it’s not, they’re not the same person. Do you get that? The life and experiences of your baby will be vastly different from those of the past. You shouldn’t expect them to be what they may have been once,” Al says.

Riza tilts her head. “So this baby’s chi is familiar?”

Al bites his lip and nods.

“Tell me. I’ll keep thinking about it until I know. Or, give me the gender at least, I’ve been wishing I could know that forever.”

Al sighs. “Well, if I’m right, you’re having a boy.” Then he pauses, before adding, “Have you considered the name Maes?”

000

“Sissy, how did the baby get in Mommy’s tummy?” Riza overhears Nijah ask Shireen one morning, as they’re in the bathroom getting ready for school.

Shireen doesn’t respond right away. “Ishvala put it there,” Shireen finally says.

“But why did Ishvala put the baby _there_?” Nijah questions, and Riza holds her breath.

“Because She wanted Mom to have a baby, Nijah.”

“Yeah, Sissy, but why in Mommy’s tummy? Why didn’t Ishvala just have somebody leave the baby at the stoop for us?” Riza slaps a hand over her mouth to hold in her laughter.

Shireen giggles. “That’s just not how it works. Babies are like seeds, except instead of water and sunlight, they need mommies’ tummies to grow into trees.” 10 points to Shireen.

“Oh,” Nijah says softly. “That makes sense.” Yes yes yes wonderful yes.

“But Sissy,” Nijah says, after a pause, “Sissy then how come babies look like daddies, too? Everybody always told us we have Papa’s smile. How’d that happen if Ishvala put the seeds in Mama?” Nonononononono—

“Ummmm--,” Shireen begins, “Well, the daddy plants the seeds, the seeds come from the daddy, then Ishvala decides if the seeds grow up into a baby.” Who the hell taught Riza’s nine year old about _sex_? Maybe Riza should be skimming those biology books on Shireen’s desk…

“But how did Daddy put the seeds in Mommy’s--,”

“Nope!” Shireen yelps, and Riza can just picture her blush, “Nope, nope, nope you can ask Mommy and Daddy that one yourself. Yeah? Yeah, okay, bye Nijah,” and Shireen rushes out of the bathroom before she can move, running right into the eavesdropping Riza.

Shireen’s devilish smirk looks so much like Roy’s, Riza is shocked into silence.

“Mommy’s right here, Nijah, why don’t you ask her now?” And Shireen skips away, abandoning Riza to drown in questions about sex from a six year old.

000

One night in late March, Riza finds herself being kicked awake by the baby in the middle of the night. She slips out of bed and goes to the bathroom, as she always seems to have to do these days, she goes to the kitchen and get some water. She reads in the living room for a bit, paces the hallways, goes to the bathroom again—

Riza is simply not tired.

Deciding that sleep is a bust for the night, Riza goes up the stairs to the second floor, then opens the little door at the end of the hall and carefully ascends the steep stairs to the attic. In the attic, she flicks away some cobwebs, and walks over the creaky floorboards to her old trunk in the corner; all that is left of her childhood.

Riza loses track of time, but the moon certainly changes position through the tiny window. She looks through old albums, reads some of her old journals, brushes out the hair of her doll, and hugs her faded teddy to her chest.

Roy comes up the stairs and finds her as she’s running her hands over the baby hats her mother knitted.

“Riza,” Roy says softly, padding over quietly and sitting on the ground beside her, cross his legs. “Riza what are you doing up here?”

Riza shrugs, petting her hands over the hats again. “Couldn’t sleep. I’ve been avoiding these things a long time, figured now was as good a time as any to face them.”

Roy looks at the toys, the journals and baby clothes and pictures spread around her. He picks up a picture of her mother and smiles slightly, “It’s startling just how much you look like her.”

Riza sniffs.

“Hey, what is it?” Roy asks her softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

She hasn’t told him because she doesn’t want him to worry. She doesn’t want him to stress about something that may never come to pass. Much as she may look like her mother, she’s not her mother, never will be her mother, and thinking about it won’t help anyone.

But Riza still thinks about it.

“My mother, she—she wasn’t sick Roy. She didn’t die of illness.” Riza whispers. “She had a baby.”

The arm around her grips so tight it’s almost painful.

“He was stillborn, my brother. It was a hard birth, Mother didn’t live long after that. I was eight.” She says it all softly, simply. Her eyes are dry, but her words are hollow.

Roy swallows thickly and rests his chin on her head.

“If it did happen—if, if you--,” but Roy can’t even get himself to say the words. “I’d retire. I may be the face of this operation, but everyone knows you’re the brains. Being Fuhrer was always our goal, not just mine. I’d retire, move the kids out to the country, maybe Resembool, the girls would like that. We’d bring Nijah’s pony along, have an actual barn for it. We could have sheep, you know how much Nijah likes sheep, and Ed could be Shireen’s alchemy teacher, and this baby,” Roy puts his hand on Riza’s stomach and the baby starts kicking again. “This baby, every day all they’d ever hear is how much Mom loves them.”

Riza appreciates that even in Roy’s worst case scenario the baby still lives. The alternative is simply unfathomable.

“And they’d hear how much I love them. And I’d do all the cooking and the cleaning and the shopping. I’d get the kids up for school on time, remind them to wash behind their ears. It would be—it would be _horrible_ without you, Riza, and I really truly never want to think about it again. But we’d be okay, eventually. The kids would be safe, and happy, and really, really loved. I promise. I’m not your father.”

Then Riza finally leans her head back on his chest and lets the tears fall. It’s a blessing to be loved, but it’s a true privilege to be understood.

And Roy’s always understood her better than anyone else in the world.

000

They get reservations at a fancy restaurant downtown to celebrate the one year anniversary of Shireen and Nijah’s adoption.

Then Shireen gets sick, so they have a pajama party with chocolate cake and saltine crackers in Shireen’s bed instead.

“I’m sorry,” Shireen says sadly, curled up in a ball as Riza strokes her hair. “I’m sorry I ruined it, tonight was supposed to be special.”

“Hey, you didn’t ruin anything, kiddo,” Roy reminds her, rubbing her back from the other side of the bed, Nijah settled in his lap, “Honestly, this is better. Well, not the you being sick part, but why get all dressed up in stuffy clothes and eat food whose names you can’t pronounce when you can just have a pajama party instead?”

Shireen smiles softly.

“Hey, Roy, go grab the--,” Riza begins, but Roy’s already picking up the two small gift boxes from where they’re sitting on Shireen’s bedside table. He hands one to Nijah, then to Shireen.

“We get presents!” Nijah gasps, ripping the paper off quickly. Riza helps Shireen prop herself up on her pillows and watches as she rips the paper off the package as well.

“Oh,” Shireen whispers, opening the box, “Oh, it’s so pretty. Thank you.”

“We get jewelry! Oh Sissy, look how it sparkles in the light, it’s so _pretty_ , Daddy put it on me, put it on me--,”

“They’re not just necklaces, they’re lockets. Open them up,” Riza explains.

Shireen unclicks the locket first, and Riza hears her breath hitch.

“We were able to have copies of the picture made, the original is still fine. We just figured, well, no matter where you go or what you do, you can hold them close to your heart.” Roy says softly.

“They look real happy in this picture, don’t they Sissy?” Nijah says, tears in her voice.

“Yeah,” Shireen responds, voice cracking, “yeah, they do.”

“Mommy, Daddy, you make us real happy, and we love you so, so much, but it’s—I still miss Mama and Papa a whole lot. A whole, whole lot. I don’t know if that’ll ever go away,” Nijah says with a sob, and Roy holds her close.

“You’re allowed to miss them, honey, you can always miss them. But they’ll be with you forever. The way they loved you will never die, as long as you two are around.” Roy says hoarsely.

“Thank you,” Shireen whispers, grabbing Riza’s hand. “Thank you so much.”

Riza can’t really speak around the lump in her throat, so she just lays down on the bed and pulls Shireen into her arms.

000

In the end, the baby arrives rather quickly and easily.

“WHAT THE FUCK, OH MY GOD, YOU SON OF A BITCH YOU DID THIS TO ME, GOD FUCKING DAMNIT WHAT THE FUCK--,”

Well, not exactly easily.

“Sorry, sorry,” Riza gasps between the contractions. She’s unsure if she’s apologizing to Roy, whose hand she’s breaking, or the midwives, who have grins on their faces.

“Hey, no apologies, Riza, you say what you need to say, you’re doing great,” Linda offers.

“The mothers who swear are always my favorites,” Joy adds, “Ok, now PUSH!”

The cycle repeats itself until finally they hear a baby’s cries.

“It’s a boy!” Linda says happily, and Joy offers Roy the scissors.

Roy looks dumbfounded.  

“Would you like to cut the cord, Mr. Mustang?” Joy asks, and Roy nods quickly.

Roy cuts the cord. Riza delivers the afterbirth. Linda cleans up the baby, wraps him in a little blue blanket and hands him over to Riza.

Her baby.

Her _son_.

“He’s beautiful,” Roy whispers reverently, sitting gently beside her on the bed, reaching a hand up to pet the soft wisps of black hair on the baby’s head.

 _Their_ son.

000

A couple hours later, once things have been cleaned up and everything’s had a chance to calm down, Roy goes down to get the girls, who have returned home from their day out with Rebecca.

“Mommy?” Nijah’s little voice asks at the door, eyes wide. Riza pats the bed beside her and Nijah hobbles over and pulls herself up. Shireen follows up soon after, a lumpy package wrapped in brown paper cradled in her arms.

“He’s so perfect, Mom,” Shireen says softly, her pinky reaching out for the baby’s little hand. He latches his fingers around her pinky, and Shireen gasps.

“What do you think, Nijah?” Roy asks quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Nijah into his lap.

“I don’t—I don’t think I know the words big enough to say, Daddy,” Nijah finally answers, not looking away from the baby. “He’s so good. He makes my heart happy.”

The girl definitely deserved her pony.

“I—We have a gift,” Shireen says finally, clearing her throat and sitting up straight next to Riza, presenting the package in her arms.

“I’ll open it!” Nijah whisper shouts, “I know what it is, but Mommy’s got the baby and Daddy’s got me, so it just makes sense.” Nijah says smartly, ripping away the brown paper.

She reveals a pretty, white baby blanket, one that has obviously been painstakingly and lovingly crocheted.

“Shireen made it! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Riza’s mouth falls open in shock. Shireen made this? This perfectly made thing? It must have taken her months—

“You did this all by yourself?” Riza asks, reaching out a hand to feel the soft blanket.

Shireen shrugs her shoulders. “Well, Nijah helped--,”

“Oh, Sissy, no I didn’t, I just sat and talked and watched while you did all the work. Isn’t she amazing?”

“This must have taken you months, Shireen,” Riza admires. Shireen rubs the back of her neck awkwardly.

“Well, I—um, I haven’t been reading as much as you think I have before bed the past few months.” Shireen admits.

Shireen, her little bookworm Shireen, gave up reading time to create this beautiful thing.

“It’s tradition,” Shireen explains softly, “When a baby’s born, you give them a white blanket.”

“Yeah!” Nijah agrees, “At Sunday school, teacher said it’s ‘cause white means pure and good an innocent and blank.”

“And then,” Shireen adds, “Well, when a person dies, you put the white baby blanket in the middle, and add lots of other fabrics and colors to make the shroud.”

“Because it represents the full and happy life the person lived, but reminds us all of where they started,” Nijah says, nodding her head.

“I-I know it’s kind of morbid. But Nijah and I have one, and I, well, I wanted our baby brother to have one, too.”

Riza meets Roy’s gaze, sees the tears welling in his dark eyes, and knows that he’s thinking the exact same thing:

What on earth did they ever do to deserve Nijah and Shireen?

“C’mere,” Riza finally says around the lump in her throat, pulling Shireen carefully into her side as Roy and Nijah scoot in even closer. Riza grabs the blanket from Nijah and gently wraps it around the baby.

They sit for a moment, the four of them huddled together, staring at this thing, this baby, their tiny little miracle. And Riza knows that there are surely greater and more wonderful moments to come in her life, just as she knows there will probably be hardships and heartbreak.

But if Riza had to pick a moment to stop time and sit in forever, it would be this.

“What’s his name?” Shireen asks, her pinky petting the baby’s downy hair.

“Maes,” Riza says. “His name is Maes.”

000


	5. Courage is fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter started out so different. I mean, same premise. But originally there was supposed to be waaaaaay more action and the big conflict was between Roy and Shireen. BUT, luckily or unluckily I’ve been really busy lately with no time to write, so I’ve had time to think about it instead. And I came to the conclusion that a Roy and Shireen fight is kind of cliché, and you’ve already seen that, and really, based on what happens, Roy doesn’t have the time and energy to be angry. However, then I realized, because of everything that happens, well….oh just wait and see. Had to make up for the overwhelming fluffiness of the last chapter somehow. Also, I tried (and probably failed) to be science-y. It’s definitely maybe doesn’t make sense. Just pretend it does, please. Lol. 
> 
> Your kudos and comments give me life. Thanks friends, hope you like it!

1930 - West City

The horror of the attack is compounded by the delightful week preceding it. 

Shireen is positive Nijah would disagree, the stupid little optimist. She’d give some gushing explanation about how, if it had to happen, if Daddy had to be hurt, then isn’t it so much the better that the week before was so wonderful?

And then everyone in the vicinity would agree and smile those soft smiles, as people are wont to do every time her beautiful, crippled little sister speaks. And that would be that.

The sisters can both agree, however, that the week before was wonderful. Dad had to go out west for a base inspection and some meetings with the generals, and he brought Nijah and Shireen, off school for the summer, to accompany him.

Whilst Dad was in meetings, Shireen and Nijah spent the week exploring West City. They went shopping, ate new foods, saw a play. One day they even went up into the mountains and hiked, as Nijah had wished for ages. It had been hot and sweaty, and not exactly Shireen’s favorite day of their trip, but for the pure joy on Nijah’s face as she tested the limits of her newest prosthetic.

The best day, though, that was Dad’s day off. The day when the three of them took the train a bit further south of West City, pulling early into the sleepy little station in a village called Bremen;

Mom’s village.

And Shireen watched as years seemed to just melt off Dad’s face as he stepped off the train and smelled the fresh air, walking them excitedly through the tiny village, the MPs falling back to follow at a respectable distance.

He showed them the school house, the church, the market. It was a charming and clean town, a place surely untouched by the marching of time. Finally, Dad took them on a short trek through a forest, down an overgrown lane, revealing the crumbling remains of what must have once been a magnificent house.

Mom’s house.

They bypassed the dilapidated house and walked back to a shimming pond with an old dock Dad looked at wistfully but wouldn’t let them walk on. And then he spent the afternoon teaching them how to fish.

The last thing they did in Bremen was go back to the market, to the flower stand. The ten year old boy working the stand had stared at them silently in openmouthed shock at Dad’s request for lilies. The old woman, who could only be the boy’s grandmother, if not great-grandmother, upwards of ninety herself, had smiled at them serenely.

“Of course, dearie, of course you can, Niles wrap up the lilies,” the woman commanded, and the boy complied, not taking his wide eyes off the three of them.

“You look an awful lot like a boy who used to run around these parts, dearie,” the woman continued, looking at Dad, happy smile of her face. “He was quite a charmer,” Shireen wasn’t able to hold in her short laugh, “sweet boy,” she ended wistfully. “I hear he works for the government now. Married that pretty little Hawkeye girl and had themselves some babies.”

“Good for him,” Dad replied with a grin, overpaying for the flowers by a factor of ten and leaving without letting Niles give him any change.

It’s this encounter that Shireen’s thinking about as they walk through the West City train station in the early morning light, readying to board the Fuhrer’s train and go home. She’s thinking about the lilies for Mom that Dad’s already had put in water in a vase and stashed on the train. She’s thinking about how pretty Nijah looks in the yellow sundress she’s wearing today, new from their shopping trip earlier this week. She’s thinking about the shiny marbles she bought for Maes, rattling around in her purse.

Shireen Khadem-Mustang has been a highly anxious person since she was eight years old. Whether she likes it or not, worst-case scenarios seem to flow through her head unceasingly. She’s normally hyper-aware of her surroundings, unwilling to be surprised by anything.

But now, now it’s five in the morning, the sun’s barely shining and she’s half asleep. She’s tired, but happy, and for once very calm.

Ahead of her, one of the MPs is already helping Nijah up on to the train. Dad looks back, sees Shireen childishly rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hands, and rolls his eyes fondly, grin on his face.

“C’mon, sleepyhead,” Dad says, putting an arm around her shoulders. “You can nap on the train. You really shouldn’t stay up so late read--,”

_BANG!_

Shireen’s been lulled into a false sense of security. She forgot that nothing, _nothing_ is ever safe. And as her father falls to the ground, the arm around her shoulders pulling her down with him, the blood blossoming and staining the front and back of Dad’s white shirt—

Shireen screams.

000

Somehow, Shireen and Dad end up pulled into the train car with Nijah and the guard; Johnson, he’s Private Johnson, Shireen remembers suddenly, he’s one of the guards who’d been following Nijah and Shireen around on their West City adventures. Johnson slams and door to the car shut and pulls Dad’s unresisting, bloody body further down the car.

Shireen hears, as though from underwater, the pops and bangs of more gunshots in the station. She sees MPs running through the window, shooting and shouting, some falling to the ground as they’re hit.

This isn’t just an assassination attempt; this is an attack. They’re in the middle of a fucking firefight.

The window in the train door they’d just come though seconds ago shatters as it’s shot, and Nijah screams, grabbing Shireen’s hand and pulling her down to the ground where she’s crouched next to Dad.

Johnson has Dad laid down on his back, his own jacket off and balled up, pressing it to the exit wound in Dad’s abdomen. He’s muttering apologies as Dad gasps and groans in pain, but doesn’t let up.

Nijah lets go of Shireen’s hand and crawls over to Dad’s shoulders to sit, pulling Dad’s head into her lap.

“It’s alright, Daddy,” Nijah promises softly, running her fingers through his hair, “It’s alright, shhh, shhh, you’ll be fine.” There are tears in her eyes, but not in her voice as she quietly comforts and reassures their dying father.

Shireen takes a moment to stare at her baby sister, to marvel at this tiny thirteen year old and the enormous strength she has.

“Ms. Shireen!” she hears Johnson bark, and it’s obvious it’s not the first time he’s said her name. Shireen shakes her head quickly and looks at the man.

He’s more of a boy than a man yet, still in his late teens or early twenties, with light brown hair and swirling eyes that can’t seem to decide if they want to be blue or green. Just two nights ago, she and Nijah had stayed up late, giggling about his pretty smile.

His mouth is in a hard line now, but the hands holding the jacket to Dad’s wound are trembling.

“Ms. Shireen, I need you to hold the jacket down. Your father’s losing too much blood out of his back, I need--,” Johnson’s eyes flit quickly around the train car, looking lost. Shireen shrugs out of the sweater she’d put on this morning and hands it to him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, lifting Dad up slightly and pressing the sweater to the wound in his back.

Dad moans horribly.

“Daddy, it’s fine, you’re fine, you’re going to be okay,” Nijah keeps whispering, grabbing his nearest hand in hers as she continues to brush through his hair.

“We have to get him out of here,” Shireen mutters fiercely to Johnson as she presses the jacket down harder. “He’s losing too much, he needs a hospital, we have to--,”

Glass rains down as the window above them is shot through.

Shireen watches Nijah bite down on her knuckle to hold in her scream.

“We can’t leave now, Ms. Shireen, it’s too dangerous,” Johnson replies in a heated whisper, doing his best to brush the glass off Dad’s torso.

“We’re sitting ducks! What if I went to the engine, told the conductor to go--,” but Johnson shakes his head sadly.

“They shot him right after they shot your father, Ms. Shireen. I saw it myself.”

Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

“Maybe I could sneak out--,” Shireen starts, but she’s interrupted.

“N-no,” Dad gasps, hand reaching out weakly for Shireen’s forearm. “Stay—stay Shireen. Don’t go. D-don’t leave.”

Shireen knows Dad’s looking at her, knows he wants her to look him in the eye, wants to say his goodbyes, tell her he loves her, he loves all of them, Nijah and Mom and Maes, he loves them all more than anything. He wants to let the last thing he see be his two loyal and devoted daughters huddled over him, holding his hands and letting him walk off into the light, away from the horrible pain and suffering of this tragic and abrupt end.

Shireen has no interest in watching. She’s already see it happen before.

Instead, Shireen looks down. And in between the dark blue of Dad’s trousers, and the red of his blood, Shireen sees a glint of white.

Dad’s gloves.

She pulls them out without ceremony, slips them quickly on over her hands and crawls to the shattered window.

“What the fu—Ms. Shireen!” Johnson yelps, attempting to stifle the blood in the front and back now by himself.

Shireen ignores him.

Instead, she carefully sidles herself up the wall, looking out the shattered window once she’s high enough. Three MPs are dead on the ground, the rest are huddled behind pillars and crates throughout the station, taking shots when they can. The shots are coming from above, at least from three different places from what Shireen can discern. She watches carefully, and finally finds one of the shooters nested in the rafters.

Heart pounding dangerously, she takes a quivering breath and scouts out the shooter one last time.

Then, Shireen snaps.

_WHOOSH!_

The flames explode right next to the shooter, not enough to burn him horribly or kill him, but certainly enough to make him scream. The MPs, finally finding the shooter with their own eyes, turn their guns on him. Some let out cheers, assuming their brave and fearless Fuhrer has recovered enough to join the fight.

The shooter falls dead, fifty feet from the rafters, and splats on the floor.

Shireen swallows back her vomit and turns to her companions.

“ _Sissy_ ,” Nijah breathes, eyes round, “Where—how? How did you do that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shireen says abruptly, shaking her head and crawling back to Dad.

“Aren’t you going to take out the rest?” Johnson asks her quickly. Shireen shakes her head.

“Not yet. We—I’m burning those holes shut. Dad’s not bleeding out here.”

Johnson, to his credit, does a great job of holding back his horror. Shireen watches him swallow thickly before nodding his head in agreement.

“I’ll hold his legs down,” Johnson says. “Ms. Nijah, can you manage his arms?”

Nijah’s biting her lip so hard it’s begun to bleed, and her cheeks are stained with tears.

“Nijah,” Shireen says softly, “Nijah, c’mon, you’ve already been so strong today. Just a little longer, okay? Little bit longer. We can save him. But I need your help.”

Nijah sniffles and nods her head firmly, gathering up Dad’s lax arms above his head and holding them down. Johnson takes off his belt and sticks it in Dad’s mouth so he doesn’t bite his tongue.

So the rest of them don’t have to hear Dad’s full cries of agony.

With everything ready, Shireen scrambles to Dad’s head, finally willing to look her father in the eye.

He’s terrified.

But, it’s a funny thing, because Shireen knows him well enough to know he’s not terrified of this. He’s not terrified of the pain that’s sure to come, he’s not terrified of the possibility of death.

He’s terrified for her.

He’s terrified _of_ her.

“I’m sorry,” Shireen gasps out, cupping her still gloved hand around his cheek, “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m so, so sorry.” They both know she’s apologizing for more than the misery she’s about to cause him.

His tears fall down and almost hit the glove. She snatches her hand away before that can happen.

Johnson rips Dad’s shirt apart, revealing not only the bullet wound, but also a large and ugly scar on the other side of his abdomen. A burn scar.

He’s done this to himself before.

“Just--,” Shireen gulps, “Just hold him down. Don’t let him move.”

Shireen snaps her fingers.

000

The next few minutes are the stuff of nightmares.

Dad bucks and tries to kick and curl in on himself, shrieking and moaning through the belt. Nijah cries. Johnson grimaces. Neither let go.

Shireen blocks it all out, focusing so hard she feels faint, like she’s not even breathing enough to function. Because one wrong snap, one wrong calculation and judgement of position and rash transmutation now could kill Dad. Could kill them all.

But Shireen doesn’t. Her alchemy is perfect, and why shouldn’t it be, Edward Elric taught her after all, and really, in the grand scheme, this is just another transmutation. A transmutation very highly forbidden by her parents, but still a transmutation. She sears shut the wound on Dad’s front, then on the back, and thanks every God she’s ever learned or read about when Dad finally passes out.

“He—he’s still breathing,” Nijah says softly, gently moving Dad’s arms back to his sides and moving her hand to brush his hair once again.

“The blood’s stopped,” Johnson adds. “You did it,” he says, staring at Shireen in wonder.

Shireen wants to puke again.

“It’s not over yet,” Shireen replies, because it’s not. The pops and bangs of the guns in the station have yet to cease. Johnson rips the cleanest parts of his jacket away from the blood, and wraps what’s left gently around Dad’s burns. Then, he crawls with Shireen over to train door, away from Nijah and Dad, pulling out his gun.

“Can you do this?” Johnson asks, looking down at her seriously, eyes wide as though just remembering he’s pulled a barely sixteen year old girl into a firefight.

Can she? Hasn’t she already?

Shireen nods her head quickly, and, from the safety of the train car, he and Shireen join the fight.

000

“As far as anyone knows, the Fuhrer was the one using flame alchemy during the train station attack, and it’s going to stay that way. Am I understood?” Nijah, Shireen and Johnson nod their heads quickly. “I said am I _understood_?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Lt. Colonel Hawkeye takes a deep breath, face impassive. She’s pacing the length of the hospital conference room her Investigation’s team has taken over as their temporary headquarters.

“You’re dismissed.” All three get up quickly, rushing to escape from this icy, indifferent rage.

“Shireen stays.”

Shit.

Shireen gulps and settles herself back into her chair. Johnson offers her a remorseful look before scrambling out the door with as much dignity as scrambling can offer.

Nijah begins to limp away, but hesitates, then rushes over and gives Mom a hug.

Mom shuts her eyes and hugs Nijah tight. “Just go sit with Dad. We’ll be there soon.”

Well, at least Mom plans on Shireen being alive by the end of the conversation.

Shireen settles back in her chair and looks out the window. She listens, but doesn’t watch as Mom sits down and stares, her eyes hard.

“Figured you wouldn’t be put on this one, since it’s Dad. Aren’t there rules about being involved when relatives are part of the incident?” Shireen asks, finally breaking the oppressive silence of the room.

“Major Armstrong is the head of this investigation,” Mom says in clipped tones. “I’m just lending a hand; I was going to be here anyway.”

Shireen fights back a snort; saying Mom is just ‘lending a hand’ is like calling Dad’s gunshot wound a papercut. Mom’s going to fight, and hunt down every Drachman rebel involved in this until they’re all dead or imprisoned. She wasn’t there to watch Dad’s back then; now she’ll make every fucker who dared take advantage of her absence pay dearly.

“How did you do it, Shireen?” Mom asks quietly. Shireen finally turns to look at her; her face is still expressionless.

“Same way as Dad, I suppose.”

Mom slams her hand on the table, and Shireen jumps. “Don’t toy with me, Shireen.” Mom says fiercely, standing up. “Don’t you dare act like this is a joke. How the hell did you do it? Who taught you?”

Shireen’s stomach is in horrible knots. She can’t tell if it’s from the stress of this conversation, of the situation overall, or if she’s just so unlucky that the illness is creeping up on her again at this terrible time.

Maybe both. Probably both.

Shireen grimaces and takes a deep breath.

“Nobody taught me, Mom--,”

“Don’t lie to me!” She yells, eyes wide and wild, and Shireen startles. Mom doesn’t yell. She just doesn’t. She gets mad, yeah, will maybe shout at them playfully to clean their rooms or eat their vegetables or go to bed. But this, this screaming, this lack of control from the most calm and collected person Shireen knows, her mother of all people, is absolutely terrifying.

Shireen does her best to ignore the tears welling in her eyes.

“Mom, r-really, nobody--,”

“Was it Dad?” Mom asks, sitting back down and staring her down once again. “Did Dad teach you?”

“ _No_ ,” Shireen says ferociously, remembering the horror in Dad’s eyes right before she’d burned him. “No.”

“Fine, Ed, did Ed figure it out? Al maybe--,”

“IT WAS ME!” Shireen finally shouts, standing up. “Is that so hard to believe? I’ve seen that fucking array a million and a half times, I found the beginning of Dad’s theories in the back of one of the notebooks he gave me when I was little, and I used it as a starting point. It’s not that hard! I’m smart. I fucking figured it out!” Shireen is breathing heavily by the end.

She sees Mom’s face, and wonders about that old tale, about married couples growing to look like one another. Because the dismay, the _disgust_ on her face is pretty damn identical to Dad’s. It makes Shireen’s chest ache to see.

Silence for a moment.

“Well, now you forget it.” Mom says, voice hard. “You forget it. And you never, _ever_ do it again. Am I understood, Shireen?”

The acceptance, the assent rises in Shireen’s throat, nearly escapes her lips, because she cannot handle the disgust on her mother’s face. The longer she sees it, the faster it will kill her, surely because Shireen’s almost died before and this is certainly what it feels like. Agree, forget, promise not to do it again, and it will be over. Mom will give her a hug, Dad will get better and they will all go home and try to forget any of this ever happened.

And yet--

“I saved him.” Shireen says quietly, sitting down and staring at her knees. “I saved Dad’s life. He’d be dead if I didn’t—if I didn’t burn him.” The words taste like ash in her mouth, but she says them anyway. “I saved him, and I don’t regret it. I would do it again, I will do it again if I have to.” Shireen finishes, finally meeting Mom’s eyes.

Mom looks ready to kill her.

“Don’t pretend you know what you’re dealing with--,”

“I know better than you!” Shireen shouts, and Mom for the first time looks shocked. “It’s alchemy, Mom, it’s not just a weapon, it’s a tool just like anything else, just like one of your guns or knives!”

The enormity of her words hits her a few seconds later, and Shireen slumps in her seat in shock. For here she is, a proud child of Ishval, defending her use of _flame alchemy_ to an officer of the Amestrian army. 

But it’s true, Shireen realizes, every word she’s said is true. And yes, her father used it as a weapon, but with the extermination orders from the Fuhrer, the Ishvalans were going to die no matter what. With flame alchemy, it would have happened quickly compared to guns and bombs. Her father is guilty, yes, but no more guilty than any person who shot a gun or set off a bomb during the war. People just hate her father for how quickly he worked, how widespread the damage was. They despise the fact that instead of bloody bodies all they were left with was ash.

But he had a job. There was a fight, there was a war, and he had no choice.

For the first time, Shireen truly understands her father.

And she forgives him.

"You don't know anything, Shireen." Mom says quietly, before exiting the room.

000

Two days later finds Shireen back on the Fuhrer’s train, racing east to Central. To home.

Nijah and Mom are in the car with her, but no one is speaking. Shireen and Mom haven’t spoken since the explosive fight in the conference room.

Dad’s in the next car, sedated and strapped down to a cot for the trip, with the doctors and nurses watching to ensure his transfer to Central City hospital runs smoothly.

Shireen hasn’t talked to him yet, either.

She sits for a while, attempting to read, to write, to do anything but listen to the horribly loud, overbearing silence.

Finally, she jumps up, unable to handle it anymore. “I’m going on a walk,” she says quickly, directing the statement to Nijah. Nijah looks up from her crocheting and nods.

Shireen doesn’t look at Mom. She walks to the next car, away from where Dad lies. She walks and walks, jumping from car to car, until she reaches _the_ car.

The windows are still broken; there are tarps over the shattered glass, but the wind rushing by is whipping and loud. Someone obviously attempted and failed to get the wide bloodstain out of the floor. And in the carpet, in the middle of all the blood, is a horrible scorch mark—

“Ms. Shireen?” Shireen jumps and looks behind her. Johnson has entered the car.

“Oh,” Shireen says quietly. “Hello, Private Johnson.”

“You can call me Steve, Ms. Shireen.” Shireen’s lips turn up a bit at that, and she sits down in one of the seats. Pri—Steve follows.

“Then I suppose you can drop the ‘miss’ Steve,” Shireen says softly. “After what we’ve been through, I think we’re there.” Steve smiles softly at her.  

“Thank you for your help, Steve. Without you, I don’t—I don’t think my dad would be here. I’m sure you’ll get lots of awards and commendation for your actions, but, I just—I’m very grateful to you. My whole family is.” Steve frowns.

“Well, your father would surely be dead without you. And I don’t think you’re being thanked for it. So, on behalf of the military and our country, thank you for saving the Fuhrer’s life.”

Shireen can’t help it; she drops her head in her hands in an attempt to hide her tears. A hesitant hand lands on her shoulder.

“You were very brave, Shireen. You thought quickly and intelligently given the circumstances, and it’s obvious you’re a talented alchemist. Have you—have you considered the state alchemy program?”

Shireen snorts wetly.

“Steve, everyone applying to the program has to be approved by the Fuhrer.”

“Since when?”

“Since my father became Fuhrer. He’s not approving me, I’ve known that since I was ten years old.”

Steve sighs, and the hand slides from Shireen’s shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you can’t be in the military. He can’t keep you from the academy. I know I’m overstepping my bounds, but you’d be an excellent asset, whatever you choose to do. Maybe you should keep the military in mind.”

Shireen tilts her head and looks in the corner, at the wilting lilies nobody has yet moved.

Shireen in the military. That’s certainly a thought.

000

Shireen carries the lilies back to Nijah and Mom.

“Here,” Shireen states, setting the vase of dying flowers in her mother’s arms.

“What’s this?” Mom asks, eyes suspicious. Shireen sighs.

“Dad got them for you in Bremen. He was really excited to give them to you, and they’re gonna die soon so I figured you should see them.”

Mom bows her head and hugs the vase to her chest. Nijah goes over and sits next to Mom, hugging her side.

Shireen pretends she can’t hear it as Mom finally cries.

000

“SISSY!” Maes shouts, running toward her as she steps off the train. “Sissy, you’re back, you’re back, oh my goodness, where’s Mommy? Where’s Nijah? Is Daddy okay? Oh Sissy, I’m so glad you’re home, I missed you so much!” Shireen hefts Maes into her arms and hugs him close, and remembers the marbles, still in the bloodstained purse that had been confiscated by Investigations.

“Hi Squirt,” Shireen chokes out, settling him on her hip and peppering his face with kisses. Maes runs a small hand down her scar, then kisses it softly, just as he’s done since he was a baby.

The unconditional love, the acceptance from this sweet, wonderful six year old overwhelms Shireen for a moment. No matter what may happen, no matter what she does, she will always have Maes.

“Shireen,” Aunt Gracia says, relieved, as she approaches them, wrapping them in her arms. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re all alright. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Shireen really can’t help it when she starts to cry.

000

Mom hugs Maes, thanks Aunt Gracia, then accompanies Dad to the hospital.

Aunt Gracia goes with the Mustang children back to their home.

“Hot chocolate?” Maes says questioningly, lifting his head from Shireen’s shoulder as they walk into the foyer of the house.

“Hot chocolate.” Nijah and Shireen reply simultaneously, and Aunt Gracia smiles and goes with them to the kitchen, fixing hot chocolate for all three of them. Once the hot chocolate is finished, and Maes is nearly asleep at the table, Shireen carries Maes up to his room and tucks him into bed. Aunt Gracia follows and bids her goodnight, shutting herself in the guest room.

Shireen goes back to the kitchen and finds Nijah still sitting at the table.

“Hey Sissy,” Nijah says softly, swirling the last dregs of the now surely cold chocolate in her mug. Shireen takes a seat next to her.

“So, what’s the scoop?” Shireen asks. Because, though she may not outwardly act or look it, Nijah is a huge snoop, and an excellent eavesdropper, and Shireen certainly takes advantage of her sister’s skills every chance she can.

Nijah sighs. “Dad misses you. A lot. He wants to see you.” Shireen pinches the bridge of her nose. “Dad’s gonna be in the hospital another week at least, but all the doctors say he should be fine.” Definitely good news. “They were watching for infection from his burns, and he hasn’t had one yet, so they think he’ll be okay.” Even better news. “And Mom and Dad are really, really worried about you, Shireen.”

Shireen lets out a big breath. “They aren’t worried about me, Nijah. They’re scared of me. You didn’t see their faces, they’re completely _appalled_ by me.”

Nijah frowns. “I don’t—Sissy, I don’t think they’re appalled by you. I think they’d be really sad to know you thought that. If anything—well, they might be appalled by themselves.”

Shireen wishes she believed her.

000

Nijah goes to bed, after making Shireen promise to go to bed soon.

Shireen breaks her promise. She heads to Dad’s study instead.

Unlike normal, Shireen ignores the books surrounding her, the files stacked on Dad’s desk and the old albums tucked away in the drawers. Instead, Shireen goes to her father’s stash of expensive alcohol, and grabs a bottle of Drachman vodka.

She ignores the glasses, and drinks straight from the bottle. She gags a bit at first; she’s had sips of her parents’ wine sparingly the past couple years, but that’s really it. Shireen isn’t sure how to explain the urge now. She just—she wants to forget. She wants to feel floaty and worriless, as everyone describes when they’re drunk. She wants to be free from this stress and terror that have filled the past few days of her life.

She realizes, vaguely, once the bottle is noticeably depleted, that these are very much the worst reasons to drink. But Shireen is also too far gone to give a damn.  

“Shireen?” someone asks, pushing open the door. “Are you in here?”

Mom. Shit.

Oh well.

“Hello, Mother dearest!” Shireen yelps, swirling around in her father’s ornate desk chair. Her mother’s tired eyes widen in shock.

“Shireen are you—have you been drinking?”

Shireen nods hurriedly.

“ _Shireen_ ,” Mom says exasperatedly, dragging a hand down her face before marching forward and snatching the bottle from Shireen’s lax hands. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Y’know, Nijah’s the angel and Maes is the baby—gotta keep with that image as the problem child somehow.” Shireen slurs knowingly. “ANYway, you’re already so mad at me, I figured I might as well take advantage.”

Mom’s eyes go hard. “Those are stupid reasons. C’mon, it’s time for bed, Shireen,” she says, grabbing for her hand. Shireen pulls back quickly.

“Mo-om, no,” Shireen gasps, frowning. “No bed. I’ll just have horrible dreams.”

Mom frowns then, too. “And what will these bad dreams be about?”

Shireen tilts her head against the back of the chair and sighs. “I didn’t want to use Dad’s gloves.” She admits softly. “I didn’t, especially not _on_ him. It was horrible, Mom.” Shireen’s voice breaks; she’s still staring up at the ceiling at the tears fall down her cheeks. “He was just—he was totally _horrified_ when he realized what I was going to do, what I could do, just like you. And he—oh, Mom, he _screamed_ so loud. So loud. He was just shrieking almost, it was like Nijah when I pulled her out of that car. And I knew, I knew it was for his own good, just like with Nijah, but I don’t think those screams will ever leave. And the smell, God, it was so awful.

“I didn’t want him to die,” Shireen says, wiping her hand across her dripping nose. “I just didn’t want to watch another dad die. I couldn’t, Mom. I couldn’t.”

Silence.

Shireen looks away from the ceiling when she feels calloused fingers wiping the tears off her cheeks.

“You didn’t, sweetheart. You saved him,” Mom says softly, biting her lip. “You saved him, Shireen.”

Shireen takes a moment to absorb her mother’s words.

“Mom--,” Mom nods. “I—I’m gonna be sick.”

Mom gets the bin to Shireen just in time to catch all the vomit.

Shireen doesn’t remember much after that. But when she wakes up early the next morning in her bed, her shoes are off, she has a pounding headache, and there’s a large glass of water on the nightstand next to her bed.

And Mom’s asleep beside her, her arm curled protectively around Shireen’s back.

She kept the bad dreams away.

000

When Shireen approaches her father’s hospital room that afternoon, Steve is standing on guard at the door.

“Steve!” Shireen says, smiling, “It’s good to see you.”

“Hi Shireen,” Steve says, “Go right on in.”

Shireen gulps. “Oh, uh, he’s free? No doctors or anything? No Generals coming to visit, nothing like that?”

Steve shakes his head, small smile on his face. “No, nothing like that. And even if he did, I’ve been informed that _you_ take preference over anyone else.”

Shireen can feel herself blushing.

“Oh, umm, well--,”

Steve opens the door. Shireen walks in.

It looks like Dad’s asleep, dark circles large underneath his closed eyes. His hair’s a mess, and he looks very pale and thin.

Shireen takes a deep breath and settles in the chair pulled up to his bedside, leaning the side of her head against her fist.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Dad says wryly, his eyes slitting open.

Shireen holds a hand to her heart and tips her head back. It seems the surprises will never cease.

“Fuck, Dad.” Shireen breathes out softly. “I thought you were asleep.”

Dad smiles with thin lips. “Don’t let your mother hear you using language like that.”

“Pretty sure she already has.”

Dad frowns.

“We need to talk, Shireen.”

“Yeah. Yeah I know.”

Dad sighs, and does his best to sit up straighter, wince on his face. Shireen fights to keep from helping him settle on the pillows.

“How, Shireen? How did you do it?”

And that’s the real question of this all, isn’t it? Not how the hell did the Drachmans ambush them, it’s where the hell did Shireen learn flame alchemy.

Shireen takes deep breath through her nose. “It—it started with those notes you gave me when I was little. One of the notebooks, the last page, I don’t know, you probably just needed spare paper years later and wrote it there. But the last page was some of your theories on flame alchemy. How your master did it, rough drafts of an array that would work. Chicken scratch really. But, it got me curious.”

Shireen looks out the window, away from Dad’s expressionless eyes.

“It’s not like I actively tried to solve it. It was just—just theories, ideas I kept coming back to. Your gloves were always around, I could look at the array whenever I wanted. It was like I knew the end of the story without knowing how it got there.

“A bit ironic, almost poetic really, using the array to split water molecules from the vapor in the air. It seems counter-intuitive to create flames. But the spark ignites the hydrogen, the oxygen keeps it going, and you get—you get fire.”

Shireen still can’t bring herself to look at Dad. “It would’ve been harder, taken longer if I had to figure out the array all by myself, I understand why that part took Mom’s dad so many years. But—I didn’t have to. And, well, I made it work.”

“You’re too clever for your own good, Shireen.”

Shireen smiles sadly, finally looking at Dad. His eyes are soft. “Papa always said that when I got in trouble.”

“He sounds like a smart man, to have a daughter like you.”

“He was.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Dad reaches over and grabs Shireen’s hand.

Something in Shireen breaks at the touch.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Shireen gasps out, gripping his hand tightly, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I’m sorry I did that to you, I just—I didn’t want you to die, I couldn’t watch you die, not like Papa, but I hurt you, I hurt you so bad and--,”

“Shhh, hey, sweetheart, shhh, it’s alright, it’s fine,” Dad says softly, his hand reaching up, brushing back her hair, cupping her cheek. “Honey, it’s okay. Shireen, there’s nothing to forgive, but if you need it, I forgive you. Alright? I forgive you, I always will.”

Shireen rests her head on the edge of the bed, and Dad runs his hands through her white hair for a while. It feels nice, and she’s relaxed like she hasn’t been since that morning in the train station. She’s nearly lulled to sleep, until Dad speaks again.

“Shireen, I know you’re smart. You’re so, so smart, and good and quick. You’re great at solving problems. But I just—I need to know that you understand—Shireen, alchemy isn’t always going to be the answer to everything, especially not flame alchemy.”

Shireen looks up. Dad has tears in his eyes.

“You can’t be arrogant, Shireen. You can’t try to be God. Don’t make the big mistakes, don’t learn the painful lessons yourself, just—just learn from everybody else’s. Please, Shireen? Please, can you promise me you’ll do that?”

Somehow, these tears, this quiet fear from her father is even worse than the horror in his eyes the train station.

Shireen nods her head quickly, “I promise. I promise, Dad.”

Dad sighs, and lifts a hand to wipe his eyes.

“The trouble with flame alchemy, it’s not the flames. They’re destructive of course, but there are plenty of other ways to start a fire. The flames aren’t what make it so terrifying. It’s the ease of it. Once you figure it out, once it all clicks, it’s so _easy_ Shireen, and now you understand that, too. All the power you could ever want or need at the literal snap of your fingers.

“Power like that corrupts, no matter how good you are. That’s why you have to surround yourself with people who will keep you in line. And be sure this information, this power, doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.

“Ever since Master Hawkeye died, it’s just been Mom and me, keeping this secret, keeping me in line. But now, for better or worse, you know, too. Don’t let this knowledge ruin you the good person I know you are, Shireen.”

“I won’t, Dad.”

Dad finally smiles a bit, seemingly satisfied by the honestly in her voice.

“Good.” Dad grabs her hand again, looking her in the eye, “Thank you for saving me, Shireen. Thank you so much.”

Shireen would love to make some witty comment about simply returning the favor, but the lump in her throat makes it impossible.

She just hugs Dad instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how well I managed angry Riza. But really, Roy gets shot when she's not there AND her kid uses flame alchemy? It's Riza Hawkeye's perfect storm; she'd be going nuts. Also I don't know if the whole flame alchemy explanation makes sense. But, there ya go. Hope you liked it maybe.
> 
> Thanks so much for the kudos and thoughtful comments. You're all awesome.


	6. The great race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five of Nijah and Maes' races through the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody ask for 4 orders of cute and 1 angst? Because I came to deliver. Lol I just really needed to do Nijah POV because she's the only one I'm missing. And I haven't written enough Maes lately. 
> 
> Kudos and comments = my love + more chapters (if anyone's still reading these things)

1925 – Central City

The sun is still shining when Nijah wakes up from her nap, which she takes as a good sign.

The flu has hit the Mustang household like a truck, and Nijah was unfortunately the one in the driver’s seat. She’s finally over it now, the aching, chilling, puking virus that kept her in bed for a week. But now, Mommy and Shireen are sick, too, quarantined in Mommy and Daddy’s room with the servants for help, in the hopes of keeping Daddy and baby Maes from being sidelined by the horrible illness.

Nijah stretches and puts her leg back on before jumping out of bed and padding down the hall. She grimaces as she passes the sick room, hearing the distinct sound of retching through the door. Her stomach is rumbling in hunger for the first time in days, so Nijah’s on her way to the kitchen when she hears burbling noises down the hall.

She creeps into to the nursery, and smiles widely at the sight that greets her.

Baby Maes is standing in his crib, jumping up and down. He gurgles happily when he spots Nijah, taking his hands out of his mouth to point at her. Daddy’s slumped in the rocking chair by Maes’ crib, picture book fallen on his lap. He’s snoring loudly, and drool is dripping from his open mouth.

Nijah supposes attempting to take care of all the sick people in the house until Mommy kicked him out, taking care of baby Maes all by himself this weekend with Nanny on holiday, and running the country has rather tired Daddy out. He deserves a nap.

Nijah’s a big girl. She can help.

Quietly, Nijah takes the book out of Daddy’s lap and throws an extra blanket over him. Then, she approaches Maes’ crib, and unclicks the locks to slide the side down.

“Ya-ya!” Maes says happily. “Ya-ya, Ya-ya, up!”

“Hush, Maesy,” Nijah whispers, finger to her lip, “Don’t wake, Daddy.”

“Da?” Maes asks, looking over to the rocking chair. “Nigh-nigh, Da?”

Nijah nods. “Yeah, Daddy went night-night. C’mon, now, up!” Nijah says, then stifles her groan as she hefts Maes from the crib. He’s getting _heavy_.

But Nijah manages, settling Maes on her hip and exiting to the hall, shutting the door quietly behind her. Luckily for her, once in the hallway, Maes begins kicking and squirming; he wants to be let down.

Nijah sets her brother down, then grabs his hand before he can toddle away. He’s still rather unsteady on his feet, and walks pretty slow, but with his hand in Nijah’s he doesn’t fall.

The problem arises when they reach the staircase.

Because Maes can’t walk down the steps by himself. And Nijah can’t walk down the steps with Maes in her arms.

Stumped, Nijah takes a seat on the top step, her hand still firmly in Maes’ to keep him from falling. Maes follows suit, kicking his chubby little legs as he sits.

Nijah’s still thinking it over when Maes suddenly pushes himself off the top step, scooting down to the next one with a loud giggle.

“Huh,” Nijah says, observing her giggling little brother, “Well, that’ll work.”

So, step by step, Nijah and Maes make their way down the grand staircase of the Fuhrer’s manor home, scooting and giggling all the while. Nijah lets go of Maes’ hand and lets him scoot for himself once he seems to get the hang of it.

It’s a mistake.

They’re five steps from the bottom when it happens; Maes launches himself too forcefully from one step to the next, and instead of scooting down one step, he scoots down them _all,_ flying to the first floor and landing hard on his butt.

Maes turns around and looks up at Nijah, his big brown eyes wide with shock. And Nijah knows they’re moments away from an explosion, from tears and wails when—

“Maesy, you win!” She shouts, big smile on her face. “You won our race, Maesy, you’re so good. So fast! That was great!”

Maes tilts his head, then grins at her widely. Nijah breathes a sigh of relief. Seems Mommy was right about babies waiting for your reaction before they react. Nijah attempts to slow down her pounding heart as she races down the last of the stairs and pulls her little brother into a hug.

“Win?” Maes asks. “Win?”

“Yep, Maes, you win. You got first place in our race!”

“Win!” Maes yelps, “Win! Win win win win--,”

Nijah has a feeling she’ll regret teaching him that word.

000

1927—Central City

“There you are, Nijah, you should be all set.” The doctor says, strapping the last buckle and giving her real knee a pat, “You’re certainly sprouting like a weed, growing so big and strong! You must be drinking your milk,” Dr. Marcus says with a wink.

Nijah gives the doctor half a smile, and grabs both his hand and Mom’s and they help her hesitantly off the table and on to the new leg.

“Feel alright, sweetheart?” Mom asks. For Mom knows Nijah’s past struggles of chafing and blisters, of locked mechanical joints and broken buckles and straps. She knows what a pain these new legs can be for Nijah.

“Yeah, yeah it’s good,” Nijah replies, taking a few limping steps before finding her stride. The legs are always the same for the most part, besides the length. Sometimes the doctor attempts to change-up the shape or the straps for ease of use, but at heart they’re all very similar. No matter what, it’s always a bit of an adjustment for Nijah, going from a long-used and worn-in prosthetic to a shiny new one the taller she gets.

 “Bye, Dr. Marcus,” Nijah calls as she and Mom walk out the door.

Nijah promptly trips on the doorjamb. Mom catches her before she can fall.

As usual, the new leg is going to be fun.

000

One of the worst parts about getting a new leg, or really just not having the leg at all, is how much everyone always babies her.

Always questioning how far she can walk, asking if she’s alright. Opening doors, and pulling out chairs, holding her hand when she really doesn’t need it. Shireen was terrible, in the beginning when she first lost her leg, hovering and smothering and not really letting her move. She’s gotten slightly better over the years. But just slightly.

Mom’s always encouraging and working with her to get stronger and faster, but even she has her moments, offering a wheelchair after long days if her leg hurts, snaking unnecessary arms around her shoulders and waist if she thinks Nijah’s flagging.

Dad’s absolutely the worst. She’s now ten years old, but he still won’t hesitate to just scoop her up in his arms after seeing her trip just once, hardly even listening to her protests.

“Daddy put me down! I didn’t even fall!”

“You almost did. C’mon, it’s not like anyone’s watching.”

“I am ten years old. This is getting ridiculous.”

“Well, you hardly weigh anything. You should eat more, Nijah.”

And that is that.

000

“We’re home!” Mom calls out as they enter the house, Nijah trailing behind her, stepping carefully over the threshold of the house.

“We’re in the kitchen!” Dad calls back, and Nijah and Mom make their way to the kitchen to find Daddy and Maes at the table drawing pictures.

“Lookit, lookit!” Maes cries, lifting up his paper from the table, “Lookit, I drew us!” he says, proudly showing off his crude drawing of a boxy house and five stick figures of varying heights, with a small black blob at their feet and a big brown blob right beside them.

“It’s beautiful, Maes,” Mom says with a smile, “We’ll pin it up on the board.”

Maes beams.

“Cook says it’s so good, we should put it in a museum.”

“But then we wouldn’t get to see it every day, Maesy, and that would be so sad,” Nijah says with a grin, stepping forward to get a closer look at the drawing. “Did you add--,”

Then, of course, Nijah trips.

She falls to the ground spectacularly, banging her chin on the wooden floor of the kitchen with a loud _thunk._

Mom and Dad are on her in an instant.

“Oh sweetheart, are you alright—,”

“Are the braces too tight--,”

“Do we need to go back, we can go back--,”

“I’m fine.” Nijah says firmly, from where she now finds herself settled on Dad’s lap. “I’m very, very fine.” And she pushes herself off Dad’s lap. He reaches out a hand, grabbing for her arm, but Nijah shakes him off.

“I’m just gonna go lay down in my room for a while.” Nijah sighs, heading for the door.

“Do you need help with the stairs?”

“No!”

000

An hour later, Nijah wakes from her doze to a knock on the door.

“I’m fine,” Nijah calls out, turning away from the door. “I don’t want to talk about it, my leg’s fine.”

“Nijah?” a young voice asks from the door. She turns over and sees Maes approaching.

“Hi Maes. What’s up?” Nijah asks, patting the bed beside her as she sits up. Maes take the proffered seat, jumping up on little legs.

“Will you go outside and race with me? To the big tree and back like last time?”

Nijah trips in the middle of their race.

Maes comes back for her after he wins, and asks if she wants to race again.

000

1928—Central City

“Can I have a pony?” Maes asks at dinner one night.

Dad chokes on his food. Shireen pounds him on his back through her laughter.

“Kiddo, we already have a pony. Why do we need another one? You can just ride Daisy.”

Maes frowns. “But Daisy is Nijah’s pony. I want my own pony.”

Nijah works hard to stifle her laughter once she notices Mom’s rather serious expression.

“Maes, lots of families don’t even have one pony. You shouldn’t be greedy.”

Maes looks down, chastised. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I just thought—well, don’t you think Daisy gets lonely, in the barn out back by herself? And I just love racing Nijah so much, and I thought racin’ her on a horsie could be fun. And, well, it would be fairer, too.”

Nijah can’t help it. She audibly awwws.

000

Maes names his pony Rocky.

“Oh my God, Daddy Mustang, this is ridiculous, it’s terribly obvious who your favorite children are. I feel so discriminated against, where the hell is my pony?”

“Shireen, you don’t even like horses. You won’t go in the barn because of the smell.”

“That is completely irrelevant.”

000

1933—Resembool

Nijah wakes to the ringing of the telephone.

“Ugh, who could be calling now?” Nina says with a groan, rolling out of bed and padding toward the door once the lights start flicking on in the hallway. Their bedroom is too far away from the phone to hear whatever’s being discussed once the ringing stops.

“Let me know what’s goin’ on,” Nijah mumbles as Nina leaves the room, stuffing her head into the pillow when Nina forgets to shut the door, letting the newly turned on light in.

And Nijah waits. She waits, and waits, and waits for Nina to come back, to shut the door and tell her Alphonse is silly and forgot about the time difference from Xing again.

But when Nina’s been gone ten minutes, and Nijah hears the kettle going off in the kitchen, she decides to take action.

Slowly, painfully, Nijah drags herself to the side of the bed and grabs the crutches resting along the wall.

The trip to the kitchen is rough. Nijah has to stop many times, her breath heaving. The stairs are the worst part; for a moment she considers just sitting down and scooting, as she and Maes did when he was little, but nixes the idea. Dragging the new automail port along the stairs is bound to hurt even worse than it already does.

So she crutches along, slowly and carefully, and eventually she pushes open the kitchen door.

All of the Elrics besides Sammy are sitting at the kitchen table, untouched mugs of tea before them.

Nina has her head in her hands; Ben’s got an arm around her, his other hand covering his eyes. Aunt Winry is holding a sobbing Trisha in her lap, her own eyes wet with tears.

At Nijah’s arrival, Uncle Ed stands up and turns around. Even his face is red and blotchy, cheeks damp.

“Honey, you shouldn’t be up,” Ed says softly, voice thick, as he guides her to a chair.

“What happened?” Nijah whispers, “Who--,” but she can’t bear finishing the question.

She thinks about Dad at the train station, just three years ago. About May and Alphonse, so far away in Xing. She thinks about Sissy, up in the cold at Briggs.

Ed crouches before her and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Nijah, it’s—it’s Maes.”

And she just breaks in half.

000

Nijah doesn’t remember much of the trip back to Central. She sleeps a lot. Sometimes Uncle Ed wakes her up, makes her drink water and take her pain pills, feels her forehead for fever and frowns.

Trisha’s there, too, sitting beside her cot, holding her hand the whole time.

“We can’t give up hope yet, Nijah,” Trisha whispers to her vehemently. “He’s not—he’s not d-dead. There’s still hope.”

But there’s no telephone on the train. Maes could already be dead, and they won’t have any idea until they arrive in Central. Nijah doesn’t tell Trisha this, though. She just nods and tries to fall back asleep, because every time she opens her eyes she’s that much closer to home.

000

They arrive in Central that evening. Mr. Jacobs comes with the car to pick them up at the back entrance of the station.

Maes is still alive, according to the driver. Uncle Ed wheels her over and he and Mr. Jacobs help her into the car.

Nijah’s nearly lulled to sleep by the rocking of the car, when she notices the streets they’re taking.

“Mr. Jacobs, where are we going?” He glances at her in the rearview mirror.

“Home, Ms. Nijah. That’s where your parents want you dropped off. You’ve had a long journey, and you’re still recovering, Ms. Nijah. I’m sure you’re very tired--,”

“You turn this car around and take us to the hospital right now.” Nijah says fiercely.

“Ms. Nijah--,”

“Mr. Jacobs, I will open this door and hitchhike to the hospital if I must.”

Mr. Jacobs takes them to the hospital.

000

Uncle Ed wheels Nijah right up to Maes’ door. He makes Trisha stay with one of the MPs in the floor’s waiting room.

“Daddy--,” Trisha protests desperately.

“Later, Trish, just—just let them be together right now, okay?”

Trisha nods, and Ed finally pushes Nijah into the hospital room.

Mom’s on one side of the bed, Maes’ hand gripped tightly in both her own and held up to her lips. Dad’s on the other side of the bed, his back to them. His shoulders are hunched and his head is bowed.

Her parents look tired. They look defeated.

And Maes, her little tiny Maesy, lying in the bed;

He just looks dead. 

Nijah had once thought nothing, _nothing_ could ever be as horrible as Mama and Papa's funeral. She had once been sure she had already experienced the worst life had to offer; knowing that and surviving made it easy to be a positive person. But now, Nijah can just picture it, can see the well-loved blanket Shireen had so painstakingly crocheted just nine years ago, he's only _nine_ ,  draped over Maes' face, forever shielding him from view at the funeral. She can see the outline of his little body under the colorful shroud, can see everyone crying and Mom just _screaming_ and Daddy and Shireen simply shutting down. 

She can see herself, left to finish the race all alone. 

Nijah can’t hold in her sob.

And then Dad is there, pulling her into a tight hug, running his hands through her hair.

“You were supposed to take her home,” Dad says to Ed softly, without heat.

“I had to see him—let me, I need to talk to him,” Nijah gasps out before Ed can answer. Dad lets her go, taking over for Ed and pushing her to the bed. Mom looks up from her vigil and meets Nijah’s eyes.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom whispers, reaching across Maes to grab her hand.

Nijah bites back another sob and finally looks down at her little brother. She uses her free hand to grip his, completing the little circle.

“Brother,” Nijah says, leaning down to Maes’ ear. “Oh, brother, _please_.” Her voice breaks as she begs. “Please, you must wake up. You’re not allowed to win this race, Maes. Not this one.”

000

1934—Resembool

“You sure you’re ready for this, sister dearest?” Maes asks, smirk on his face as he swings his arms in a stretch. It’s scary how much Maes resembles Dad when he smirks.

Nijah just grins, shaking out her legs as she jumps up and down like a five year old. “Between you and me, brother mine, I’ve been prepared for a few weeks now.”

Maes’ mouth drops open in mock horror. “Nijah have you been _running_ on that leg before Aunt Winry said it was alright?”

Nijah rolls her eyes. “Oh, like you weren’t out playing with your friends a full _month_ before the doctor said it was okay for your lungs.”

Maes blushes a bit, shoving his glasses up his nose, and Nijah pats his head. She has to take advantage while she can; Nijah has a feeling Maes is going to end up tallest of them all, and he won’t be quiet about it.

“Are you slowpokes ready yet?” Shireen calls down to them from the top of the hill, the finish line of their latest race. She’s gathered up there with Mom and Dad and all the Elrics, even Al and May. There’s actual tape for the finish line, spread out between Trisha and Ben. Dad even has Maes’ camera in his hands, prepared for a photo-finish. Shireen has her gun out and up, ready to shoot to signal the start.

“Just a second!” Nijah shouts back, before turning to Maes. “Maesy, I love you very, very much. But if you try to pull some bogus chivalry card and let me win, I will kill you.”

Maes smirks Dad’s smirk again. “Nijah, when have I _ever_ let you win? You’re going down, sister.”

Nijah knows he’s telling the truth.

It’s why she likes him so much.

“In your dreams, brother.”

“ON YOUR MARK!” Shireen shouts from above. “GET SET!”

The gun goes off.

And Maes and Nijah _run_.

000


	7. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times Shireen shows her dad that she loves him. And the first time she says it. 
> 
> A different kind of love story told in reverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, friends. So, this is the last chapter. I love this story, I love these characters, and I absolutely love everyone reading this and all the kind comments and responses. 
> 
> But I really like what I've written, and I've just had the realization that I basically made my own personal mash-up of Fullmetal Alchemist and This Is Us, which is really, really cool because I love both shows. But also, it means this story could literally go on forever. 
> 
> So, instead of doing that, and eventually forgetting this story or making it stupid and campy, I'm just gonna stop now. I tried to give it a fitting conclusion. There's no Maes and very little Nijah and Riza, but it's only because, at its heart, this story was kind of all about the relationship between Roy and Shireen, and I wanted to highlight that at the end. Thanks for reading, and for loving my OCs as much as I do. You're great.

1943—Central City

“I still cannot believe that bastard impregnated our daughter.”

“’That bastard’ as in her husband?”

“Stop trying to be rational about this Riza. Shireen had a baby. A baby. _She’s_ barely more than a child!”

“Roy, she’s twenty-eight.”

“Exactly! A child!” Riza rolls her eyes and walks through the door Roy’s holding open for her, clutching the package to her chest.

“Besides, we’re much, much too young to be grandparents.” Roy adds as he follows her in the hospital. Riza rolls her eyes again, giving him the side-eye as they ascend the stairs.

“Is that what this is about? Because I hate to break it to you, but that hair of yours is much more salt than pepper these days.”

Roy pouts. “Now you’re just being cruel.”

“Roy, aren’t you happy?”

“God, of course I am. I’m ecstatic. I kind of feel like I’m about to explode. I’ll probably burst into tears the minute I walk in the room. But doesn’t it…Riza doesn’t any of this feel just _weird_ to you? Completely surreal? I feel like ten minutes ago I was driving her to dance class, and now she has a _baby_.”

Riza smiles at him sweetly, and wraps an arm around his waist, “That’s how this is supposed to work. It’s not weird, it’s just right.”

Roy doesn’t realize just how right it is until they walk into Shireen’s hospital room.

His daughter is propped up on a mound of pillows, white hair long and tangled, down from its usual bun. Her face looks pale, and her eyes are tired.

But her mouth is pulled up in one of the loveliest smiles Roy has ever seen as she stares at the bundle cradled in her arms.

“Hi,” Shireen whispers when she sees them in the doorway. “Would you like to meet your grandson?”

Surprisingly, Roy is not the first to burst into tears.

“Oh, _honey_ ,” Riza gasps, rushing up to the bed, dropping her package on a chair along the way. “Oh, Shireen, he’s beautiful. He’s so, so beautiful.” Riza gently takes a seat on the edge of the bed to stare at the baby, before cupping Shireen’s cheek with her hand. “How do you feel?”

Shireen shrugs a little, “Kinda sore. Tired. Worth it, though,” She says, beaming again.

“So, where is that blaggard husband of yours? Has he shown his true colors and run, the filthy coward--,”

Shireen rolls her eyes fondly. “Steve’s just calling his brother, Dad.”

“Oh.” Roy says, finally approaching the bed. He sidles up behind Riza and rests a hand on her shoulder.

His grandson really is beautiful. A tiny pink face with a sweet button nose, just like Nijah and Shireen’s. His little bow of a mouth is upturned almost like he’s smiling. A tuft of white hair sticks out of the striped cap on his head.

“Wow,” Roy breathes out, tears prickling in his eyes. “Good job, sweetheart.”

“Roy, the gift, we have a gift,” Riza suddenly remembers, and Roy turns around and grabs the package from the chair.

“Would you like to hold him?” Shireen asks, and Riza nods quickly, reaching out to cup the baby’s head and cradle him in her arms. Once her hands are free, Roy gives Shireen the package.

“Mom,” Shireen chokes out when she sees the white blanket, “Oh, you _remembered_.”

“As if I could ever forget,” Mom says softly, “I asked Nijah if she’d mind if I made it instead.”

“It’s perfect, Mom,” Shireen says, wrapping the blanket around her son.

“So, what’s his name?” Roy finally asks, reaching up his hand to gently pet the tuft of white hair. The baby gurgles at the touch. His mouth opens wide in a yawn, then he blinks his eyes, revealing a pretty blue.

Shireen smiles at him, her eyes dancing with mirth. “We actually had a lot of trouble coming up with a name. But we found one that fit, eventually.”

“Well, Roy is always a great choice, if you’re still stuck,” he says jokingly.

Shireen’s smile widens.

“I’m glad you agree; that’s his name.”

Which, of course, is the moment Roy Mustang bursts into tears.

000

1934—Central City

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Roy mutters, shaking his head as Edward approaches. “Five years you were on active duty, five _years_ , and you wore the uniform a grand total of _zero times_.”

Ed beams, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder before putting his hands on his hips and posing. “Well, bastard, I’m a General now. I gotta look the fucking part.”

Roy rolls his eyes, wondering where the hell Ed even got his uniform. Some poor officer is probably tearing one of the locker rooms apart right now, searching for his clothes. “That rank was given in a very _honorary_ capacity after you retired at the ripe old age of seventeen. You were only invited today to observe because you were Shireen’s teacher.”

Ed just shrugs.

“So, worried Shireen’s gonna score higher than you did on the written exam?” He asks with a grin.

Roy smirks. “I know for a fact she scored higher than _you_ did, Fullmetal.”

Edward is still sputtering when they enter the exam hall.

“Private Khadem-Mustang, are you prepared for the practical portion of your examination?” Major Armstrong asks. Roy can tell he’s fighting to keep the smile hidden under his mustache.

“I am, sir.” Shireen says firmly. It’s always startling to see Shireen in uniform. The padded shoulders and baggy trousers make her look bigger than the tiny girl Roy knows they’re hiding. She wears her hair in a tight bun like Riza; it makes the whiteness of her scar stand out against her tan skin. Shireen looks older in uniform. She looks fierce and formidable.

She looks like a soldier.

“Will you be needing something to draw your transmutation circle with, Private?” Colonel Linton asks.

“That won’t be necessary, sir.”

“Then show us what you’ve got, Private.” Roy states. Shireen barely suppresses her grin. And then she reaches to her pockets, drawing out a pair of white gloves.

For a moment, Roy can’t breathe.

Oh no. No. She wouldn’t, what the fuck, no, Shireen wouldn’t do—

She pulls the gloves on over her fingers and snaps, flourishing her arm upward.

And there, inside the state alchemist examination hall, it begins to snow.

Shireen continues her show, making it hail and sleet, creating icy projectiles that dance through the air around her. She ices part of the floor and jumps on top of it, sliding to the other side of the hall. She creates an astonishingly sharp spear out of an icicle and throws it straight up in the air before snapping again.

The spear dissolves, snow falling lightly around them once more.

Edward is the first one to his feet, applauding loudly. The rest of the hall soon follows suit.

“Congratulations, Major.” Roy says over the din, unable to keep the smile off his face. Unwitting tears are welling in his eyes, but he holds them back.

For, if ever there was an answer, a match to his flame

It is the Ice Alchemist.

000

1930—Central City

“You good?” Riza asks, as she helps him lean back against the pillows. “Are you cold? Do you want more--,”

“Riza, I’m fine. Really, just come to bed.” Riza frowns at him.

“Are you sure you want me to sleep in here, Roy? I know I kick. I mean, what if I hit you, what if--,”

“Riza, I’ve been sleeping without you in bed with me for almost three weeks, and it’s been three weeks too long. Just come to bed. Please?”

Riza smiles tightly. “Yeah, okay. Let me put on my pajamas.” She finally agrees, kissing his forehead before walking over to the dresser. Once she turns away, he shuts his eyes tightly and grimaces, feeling the sting as the bandages on his stomach pull.

Damn fucking Drachmans.

“Knock, knock,” Shireen calls suddenly, opening the door without any more warning, “Hey, Dad, you forgot your last dose of--,”

The pill bottle falls from Shireen’s hands.

Shireen’s mouth is dropped open, red eyes wide as she stares at the corner of the room.

At Riza, in the middle of putting on her pajamas, her back turned to the door.

“Oh my God,” Shireen breathes out, rushing to Riza before she shrugs the pajama shirt over her shoulders. “Oh my God, _Mom_.”

Riza doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even move. But she doesn’t back away when Shireen’s hesitant hand reaches out and touches the burned flesh, touches what remains of the tattoo.

Roy’s pretty sure he stops breathing.

“I’m sorry I said you didn’t know,” Shireen chokes out, gentle hand still brushing along the scars. “God, you know better than all of us, don’t you?”

And as Roy watches their daughter, her small hand tracing the puckered skin, the array that had changed all their lives, as he watches Riza allow the first person in over _twenty_ _years_ besides him to see her back, let alone touch it, something in his heart he’d thought completely irreparable slowly starts knitting itself back together.

000

1924—East City

“Check,” Shireen announces, smirk on her face as she moves her queen into position.

Well, shit.

Roy’s about to have his ass handed to him by a nine year old.

He looks the board over, before sighing and moving his king to the left one position. Shireen smirks again and immediately jumps her remaining knight over, knocking Roy’s king down to his final resting place.

“Yes! I knew that stupid horse would come back to bite you in the butt, Daddy Mustang!” Shireen jokes, smiling widely.

Roy frowns.

It’s been a few months since Nijah had, quickly and rather unexpectedly, been gifted her pony. Roy just, God, the minute he’d heard Nijah thought he and Riza would return them to the home, like they were some shirts that didn’t fit right he could bring back for store credit, well his mind kind of went blank.

And when Roy came to, he was handing over a very large check to Havoc and being given the bridle of a fucking horse.

“Enjoy your mustang, Mustang,” Havoc had joked. Roy couldn’t even bring himself to roll his eyes. Because, holy shit, he was one of _those_ dads. One of the dads who dealt with hard situations by buying extreme presents and avoiding discussion altogether. By spoiling his daughters rotten and believing they can never do anything wrong.

Well, at least that part’s true. Shireen and Nijah are perfect.

But that’s not the point.

“Are you angry about Daisy, Shireen?” Roy asks hesitantly.

Shireen tilts her head and scrunches up her nose. “Why would I be angry? Nijah loves her so much.”

“Well, I mean—Shireen, do _you_ want a pony?” Roy finally asks. Because obviously, the only correct answer to buying one child an outrageous guilt gift is buying another outrageous guilt gift to make it fair.

Roy’s angry at himself about not thinking of it before; Shireen has always seemed so much older, so mature and wise for her age, it’s too easy to forget sometimes that the girl is barely nine. Roy has been horribly inconsiderate and unfair to her, he suddenly realizes. What nine year old girl is able to sit back and watch her little sister receive a fucking _horse_ for really no reason at all and not feel an ounce of jealously?

Apparently, Shireen is. She laughs out loud at the question.

“Dad, no I definitely don’t want one. I mean, they’re fun enough to ride, but I know once she gets older you’re gonna make Nijah help take care of the horse, and I do not want any part in that. They just, ewww—they smell so bad. And the _poop_ ,” Shireen sticks out her tongue in disgust, and Roy feels himself smiling.

“You know I love you just as much as Nijah, right? I love you both so much, and the new baby, too. I love you all the same, and I don’t have any favorites, because you’re all my favorites. Okay?” Roy says, sounding a bit desperate even to his own ears.

Shireen nods, then smiles. “Sorry to break it to you, but Mom’s my favorite.”

Roy smirks. “Well, sweetheart that’s just common sense.”

And Shireen laughs again. Roy loves her laugh. It is high and warm and full, and reminds him pure and happy things. It’s like waking up to the first snow on the ground, and watching it sparkle with the rising sun.

“I’m just teasing, Daddy. And don’t feel bad about the pony. If anybody in the world deserves to be spoiled, it’s Nijah.” Shireen sighs wistfully, then looks at him, her red eyes bright. “Besides, you already offered me anything. And you gave me everything I needed and wanted when I asked. You and Mom took us home.”

Yes, Shireen is perfect indeed.

000

1923—East City

“Christmas here,” the gruff voice says over the line.

“Hey.”

The voice ticks. “About time I heard from you, Roy Boy. According my sources, I should be breaking out the cigars.”

Roy lets out a light laugh. “Yeah, we’re finalizing the adoption tomorrow. Then we get to take them home.”

“Did Nijah get over that cold?” Roy feels his eyes widen.

“Why do you have contacts in an _orphanage_?”

Aunt Chris laughs, “Kid, I have people everywhere, you know that. And really, why wouldn’t I keep in contact with the place I got you?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. And I’m sure glad I did, you brat, you don’t even think to tell your dear sweet Aunt Chris when you become a fucking _father_ \--,”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s kind of been a whirlwind. We’ve been pretty busy.” Roy says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.

“Yeah, I remember how it goes.” Chris sighs, “So, when do I get to meet the kiddos?”  

“Riza wants to have a big party in a few months so they can meet everybody. We want to give them some time to settle first, though.”

“Makes sense.”

Silence.

“So,” Roy begins hesitantly, “Got any advice?” For if any person in the world can empathize with this situation, it’s Aunt Chris.

Silence again.

“It’s not like I gave you some wonderful, conventional childhood, Roy. You literally grew up in a brothel.”

Roy snorts. “I had a much more interesting childhood than anyone else I know. And you loved me, that’s all I really needed.”

Roy hears it as his aunt’s breath catches.

Holy fuck, did he make Chris Mustang _cry_?

“Aunt Chris--,”

“There you go, take your own advice,” Chris interrupts, voice low, “Just love them. And tell them every chance you get, don’t do that whole _understanding_ bullshit that we’ve always had, okay?”

He fucking made Chris Mustang cry.  

It’s okay. His eyes are wet, too.

000

“So, can we call you mommy and daddy?” Nijah asks the minute they enter the house the next day.

Roy nearly drops her in shock.

“Oh, well, of course sweetheart, if you want to,” Riza says gently, “Don’t feel like you have to, though, either of you. You can call us whatever you want.”

“Although, I’d really prefer if we finally dropped ‘Mr. Stupid General Sir’,” Roy adds, smiling at Shireen. Everyone laughs, slumping together on the couch after the long and wonderful day.

“Well, we have a Mama and a Papa, and now we have a Mommy and a Daddy, too. It’s just right,” Nijah says firmly, hugging Roy’s neck.

And that is that.

000

“Night-night, Daddy,” Nijah says softly, as Roy tucks in the pink quilt around her. “I’m real happy that we’re here. I'm real happy you’re my daddy, now.”

Damn, this kid. She’s gonna kill him.

Roy really doesn’t mind at all.

“I’m very happy that you’re here, too, honey. I love you. Sweet dreams.” He leans down and kisses her forehead before backing out the door, leaving it open a quarter, just the way she likes.

In the hall he meets Riza, just exiting Shireen’s room. His wife is using the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her eyes, but she’s positively beaming at him.

Roy pulls her into a hug.

Words aren’t enough right now, and for them they’ve never really been necessary. He already knows what she’s thinking.

Because for years, Roy thought all he needed in the world, all he would ever need to be happy was Riza Hawkeye. He knows she felt the same about him. And they could’ve had a wonderful life, Roy can just picture it; they would’ve had each other and their friends and their jobs and their dog. They would’ve been perfectly happy.

Then they met two Ishvalan orphans, who derailed the definition, who expanded their horizons of happiness.  

“I never expected this,” Riza whispers into his shoulder, “I didn’t—Roy how did we get this?”

More than once in their lives, Roy and Riza didn’t presume to live to the next day. There was a time when Roy never thought he'd see Riza’s face again, let alone the faces, the white hair and red eyes of their _children_. He and Riza are murderers and sinners, the power-hungry keepers of secrets and lies.

And now they are married. With a house and a dog.

And they have _children_.

“I don’t know,” Roy says softly into her hair. He doesn’t know, but he can’t wait to wake up tomorrow, and realize once again that it’s all not a dream.

000

Roy goes into Shireen’s room to find the girl tucked in tightly under the purple quilt. Her eyes are closed, and Roy’s about to turn around, to let her sleep after the long day they’ve all had.

Instead he sits on the side of the bed.

And Shireen’s eyes open up.

“Sorry,” he says softly.

Shireen smiles, “It’s alright, I wasn’t really asleep.”

And Roy just sits there, the words lodged in his throat. Because Shireen already knows, she’s older and wiser than little Nijah, he knows Shireen knows, and the easy understanding that he has with Chris, with Riza, with the Elrics, he can have it here, too.

But he shouldn’t.

He won’t.

“Goodnight, Shireen. I love you.”

Shireen smiles so wide he can’t see her scar.

“I love you, too, Dad.”

Roy Mustang has held many titles in his life, been called many different things. He has a feeling no matter what happens, for better or worse, Dad will be the best of them all.

000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Did Shireen marry literally the one other boy named Steve with a pretty smile who showed up in basically only two paragraphs of one chapter?? ;) idk decide for yourself, I'm sure there are many Steves in the world. Maybe I just got lazy thinking up a name.  
> 2\. But zip, wasn't there already a Freezing Alchemist in the first episode of Fullmetal Alchemist? Yes, but Shireen is the Ice Alchemist because #symbolism. (Let's be real, I just wanted to turn Shireen into Elsa).  
> 3\. Did you just put Ed in a military uniform because you were mad it didn't happen ever in the show? Yes. Yes I did. 
> 
> Now, all you need to know is nothing bad ever happens to Roy and Riza and their precious OC children ever again, and they all live to be 100, because that's what they deserve. Okay? Okay.


	8. The man who knew too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who LIED. Well, I lied to myself even, so is that really a lie? In my defense, I’m not really expanding anything in this story, just adding on to one of the chapters. But, you know what? I made up a really cute and sweet nine year old boy and then put him through something horribly traumatic. Maes Mustang deserves closure and comfort and I am finally here to deliver. 
> 
> Can this be an epilogue? Maybe it’s an extra extra long epilogue, I don’t know. But I’m tying up a few other loose ends here, too ;)

000

1933—Central City

“Maes, you need to eat more,” Mom says with a sigh, watching sadly as Maes pushes his food around on his plate: the mashed potatoes, the peas so smooshed they’re nearly a paste, and the soft meatloaf that has been cut up and torn apart so much it’s more crumbles than a loaf.

Baby food. It’s practically baby food in this state.

And Maes can’t bring himself to hardly touch it.

“I’m not hungry,” Maes replies. His stomach growls loudly in contradiction.

“Do you want me to reheat the soup?” Dad asks quietly. Maes looks down at his lap and nods, eyes burning. Dad just pats his hand and stands up, walking to the kitchen.

Maes has to force himself not to follow.

Because it’s _Dad_. It’s his dad reheating the soup, the same soup he ate last night, too. It’s fine, the soup is fine, will be fine, nothing bad will happen.

Dad won’t let anyone else touch his soup.

His mother and sisters continue eating, trying to make light discussion and pretend that none of them are eyeing him worriedly. Dad comes back with the soup eventually, handing Maes a spoon.

The first bite always the hardest. Because even with soup, even with this horribly plain, nearly tasteless soup that’s hardly more than a broth with some soft chunks of real food, the first bite always feels like glass attempting to slide down his throat.

Maes makes it through half his soup before asking to be excused.

His parents let him go; it’s more than he ate yesterday.

000

Maes goes up to his room and curls under the covers, stomach still growling slightly with hunger. His body is tired, as it seems to always be lately, but right now his mind is not. He slips out of bed and pads quietly down the stairs, intent on getting his novel where he left it in the living room before curling up in bed once again.

Maybe if he falls asleep reading the nightmares will go away.

He grabs the book, ready to go back up to his room when he hears the murmurs down the hall, in the dining room.

Mustang Family Meeting. Sans the youngest Mustang.

Wow, wonder what _this_ is about.

Maes goes to listen at the door, socked feet hiding his footsteps.

“What are we going to do?” Nijah asks, tears in her voice. “He has to eat _something_ , he’s just withering away at this point. What do we do?”

Mom sighs, “As long as he’s getting some kind of nutrition, he’ll be okay physically. The doctors say just keep trying his favorite foods, make sure he’s drinking his milk, and let him have the soup if he won’t eat anything else. We can’t—we can’t force him to eat, sweetie, no matter how hard this is to watch. He’ll come around in his own time.”

“What if he stops eating the soup?” Shireen asks quietly.

Dad lets out a hard breath through his nose. “Take him back to the hospital, I guess.”

“God, this is awful,” Shireen says, muffled as though she has a hand on her face. “Damn Cook. Damn her to fucking hell--,”

“Shireen--,” Mom says a bit reproachfully, but even she doesn’t sound like she disagrees.

“Yeah, yeah, watch my language. Sorry.”

Silence.

“When’s the trial going to be?” Nijah asks hesitantly.

“It’s looking like the middle of next month.”

“Are you both testifying? Do you need me to?” Shireen questions. Mom and Dad both sigh.

“We don’t know, Shireen. I don’t really want to think about it right now.” Dad answers.

Silence again.

“Nijah, there’s something else we need to talk--,” Mom begins, but Nijah interrupts immediately.

“No.”

“You didn’t even let her finish, Nijah,” Dad says, sounding exasperated. Maes can nearly see Nijah’s firmly shaking head.

“No. I’m not going back to Resembool now. Not now, you can’t make me.”

“You’re behind on your rehabilitation, Nijah. You need Winry--,”

“Then bring her here,” Nijah says petulantly. 

Mom takes a deep breath. “Winry’s workshop, her office, your new leg, it’s all in Resembool. And Winry has plenty of other clients besides you. Plus, the kids start school soon, you know they start earlier in the East than here. We can’t ask Winry to drop everything just for you, they’ve done too much for us already.”

Nijah takes a shuddering breath, “But, _Maes_ \--,”

“It’s just a couple weeks, honey. Just two weeks,” Dad pleads.

Nijah starts to cry.

“Nijah, you can’t let what you went through be for nothing. You can’t—don’t screw it up now. You’ve worked so hard, and you went through so much to get this leg, don’t let some stupid infection or problem mess it all up now. You know you need to go back.” Shireen says, voice firm, “I know you want to be here for Maes, we all do. But you’re hurt, too. You’re sick, too, and you’ve been ignoring it because of Maes. You gotta take care of yourself before you can take care of everybody else. You’re important, too.”

Maes carefully treads back up to his bedroom, guilt settling like a stone in his stomach.

000

Maes does his best to feign surprise when his parents announce that Nijah’s headed back to Resembool tomorrow at breakfast the next morning. He is, however, surprised when Shireen says she’ll be accompanying their sister.

“I’ll just stay overnight in Resembool, make sure Nijah’s settled. Then I’ll be straight back.” Shireen says, gripping his hand. Maes just nods into the bowl of oatmeal Mom set in front of him, overloaded with brown sugar and cinnamon. It’s more of a dessert than any balanced breakfast.

Maes forces himself to eat three bites then leaves.

He goes upstairs to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and washes his face. He has to be careful of the little stiches, spreading an inch into his cheek from the right side of his lip. It makes it hurt to smile.

Maes is putting his glasses back on, frowning at the new hollowness of his cheeks and the cut that’s sure to scar, carefully fingering the dark stiches when he spies Shireen in the doorway.

“Hey Squirt,” she says, reaching and moving his hand away from the stitches, staring at him in the mirror. “Don’t mess with those, just let them be.”

Maes frowns. “Mom doesn’t like them. They make her feel guilty. I wish they were gone.” For it was Mom’s ring, her engagement ring that had sliced through the side of Maes’ mouth as she stuck her fingers down his throat, forcing him to puke up the poisoned cake that fateful night two and a half weeks ago.

Shireen sighs, and puts an arm around his shoulders. “Scars aren’t so bad, kiddo,” she says, smiling slightly. “And, not that this is ever a contest, but yours is always just gonna be a cute little baby scar next to mine.”

Maes doesn’t laugh. Shireen continues, “Mom told me once when I was little that scars are just stories in our lives, and only those who matter to us most get to know them. And that’s true. But I think—Maes, the best part about our scars is we get to decide the story.

“With mine, well, I could just say I got it in the car crash that killed my parents. That could be my story,” Shireen says, fingering the locket around her neck that she always wears. “Or, I could tell the story of how I lived. Of how I pulled my little sister out of that flaming car and saved us both. Of how we survived and eventually met two people with scars just like ours and became a family.” Shireen wraps both arms around him from behind and rests her chin on top of his head, still staring at him in the mirror.

“You’re allowed to be sad, Maes. You’re allowed to be scared and hurt. But someday, when you look back on what happened to you, when you look at that scar, you’ll get to decide the story you tell. It could just be the day you got poisoned. Or, well, it could be the day that Mom saved your life. The day that you saved Dad’s life and lived to tell the tale. It’s up to you, kiddo.”

Maes looks at Shireen’s scar, long and thin, running from under her left eye to the side of her mouth, then looks at his, a short red jag splitting to the right of his lips. Her white hair falls in waves beside his short black, and the tan hands under his face contrast completely with his now unnaturally pale skin. Her bright red eyes bore into his brown-eyed, bespectacled reflection in the mirror, soft and sad.

Maes Mustang looks nothing like his sisters, never has. If anything, he is their opposite in appearance, a contrast of white and black and light and dark.

But now, as Maes looks at the swoop of her scar, the way it tilts her mouth same as his, he realizes he and Shireen finally match.

000

After a very tearful goodbye, Nijah and Shireen make their way to the train station the next morning.

“Maybe Aunt Winry and Trisha will bake you an apple pie and Shireen can bring it home with her,” Nijah says with fake cheerfulness, wiping away her tears before pulling him down to her chair for a hug.

“Oh, um, yeah. Maybe.” Maes shrugs.

How messed up is he, that not even _Aunt Winry’s pie_ sounds worth it? But then, Maes remembers the last person he shared Aunt Winry’s pie with, and figures that any apple pie may taste like ash to him for the rest of his life, no matter how good it is.

That’s the worst part of all this, in Maes’ opinion. Because, yes, he’s still tired and ill and hurt, and food feels like glass in his throat and everyone is sad and his family is treating him like he’ll break into a million tiny pieces. Maybe he already _is_ in a million tiny pieces.

But Cook, she was his friend. She had a snack for him every day after school, would sneak him sweets before dinner if she thought he was good. She listened to all his troubles if his family wasn’t around, gave him hugs and patted his head. She’d been hired by his parents when he was just a baby, after serving the best dolma and kebabs Shireen said she’d ever had after a party Cook had catered.

Maes can’t remember a time without Cook around. And now she is worse than dead to him.

He’s never felt so betrayed. He’s never felt hate like this before.

He’s never felt _hate_ before.

“Let’s go outside, honey,” Mom says, after Nijah and Shireen have left. Dad’s gone into the office for the morning, attempting to make some kind of dent in the work that has piled up in the mess that was the last month.

It seems, despite Dad’s best efforts, the country can’t completely run itself.

Maes follows Mom out the back door. Mom clicks her fingers, and Little Hayate comes along, trailing behind them. Once they’re outside, Mom grabs some balls, a knotted rope, and a disc from a box on the porch, and leads them all out to the yard. Then, she pulls out her gun.

“We’ve got work to do, don’t we, Hayate? We’ve been much too relaxed with you. Time for obedience class.”

A couple hours later, Maes and Hayate are exhausted, Hayate has most certainly been scared straight, and they’re laying with Mom on the grass in the backyard, watching the clouds.

Mom’s leaned up against one of the big trees, Maes’ head in her lap and Little Hayate’s curled up against his stomach. Maes is nearly asleep, and Mom’s hand is running comfortingly through his hair.

“Mom, have you—have you talked to Cook? Since it happened, I mean,” Maes asks softly, suddenly curious. Mom stiffens slightly.

“No,” Mom answers, voice just as softly. “No, I haven’t.” She’s silent for a moment, “Dad has, though.”

That’s certainly interesting. Mom’s tone makes it obvious she’ll share no more on that topic, however.

 “Do you hate her?” Mom bites her lip and continues petting his hair, smoothing down the cowlick in the back.

“Yeah,” Mom finally answers. “I do. I hate what she did. I hate what happened. I hate the fact that I almost lost you.

“But I understand her, too. She was avenging her son. And if I lost you, if I lost any of you--,” Mom takes a shuddering breath, “I just—I understand. It scares me how well I understand her.”

The drop lands in his hair, and at first Maes thinks it must be raining. Then, he remembers it’s a beautiful day outside and they’re sitting under a tree. So he opens his eyes, sits himself up a bit, and wraps his arms around his mother’s waist.

Mom hugs him back so tightly it nearly hurts.

But only nearly. Those are the best kind of hugs, anyway.

“You don’t get to leave me, Maes. Not like that. You don’t get to go,” she whispers in his ear, pulling Maes into her lap and hugging him even closer. The shoulder of her sweater grows damp with his tears.  

Dad finds them like that, maybe minutes, maybe hours later, asking if they’re ready for lunch.

Maes eats his whole bowl of soup, and half a sandwich.

Mom smiles.

000

That night, Maes wakes up crying from his dream.

The nightmares have been plaguing him since he woke up in the hospital; horrible, terrifying dreams. At first they’d been about the poisoning; he’d wake up choking and sobbing with his parents’ petrified faces burned into in retinas.

But, as the nights go by, the dreams seem to morph, to change. Sometimes he’s falling from great heights. Sometimes, he’s burning, shrieking in pain that he can’t actually feel. One time he’s caught in a rockslide before everything fades to black.

In every dream he dies.

The dream tonight, though, it’s not terrifying so much as it’s unspeakably sad. Maes is laying on a bed, as a parade of young children come through, all kissing his forehead and handing him roses. Telling him goodbye. Most of the children he doesn’t recognize, but some he does. Little Shireen and Nijah make appearances, a tiny Elysia, Sammy and Trisha, very young versions of Ed and Al and Winry.

To them all, Maes reaches out an old and withered hand and puts it on their cheeks, telling each of them how much he loves them.

Maes wakes with a gasp, tears in his eyes, and clambers out of bed.

In the beginning, in the hospital and the first few nights home, Mom or Dad sat by his bedside all night long, so they were there to hold him when he cried. The past week, he’s been going to Shireen’s room after the dreams; Nijah needs her sleep right now.

But now, neither of his sisters are here.

It seems Maes is back to square one.

Maes hasn’t actually slept in his parents’ bed in a few years, but he knows he won’t be turned away, especially not tonight. He treads into the bedroom on tired feet, approaching the side of the bed closest to the door.

“Dad,” Maes breathes out, “Dad?”

Dad opens his eyes.

“Maes, are you alright?” he whispers worriedly, starting to sit up.

“I—can I--,” Maes begins, feeling suddenly awkward.

Dad just snakes a hand around his waist and pulls him up into the bed.

Normally, Maes would go to the middle of the bed, steal half of each of his parents’ pillows and sleep soundly ‘til morning.

But it’s the middle of the night, and Maes really is _so_ tired, even getting to his parents’ room was a chore; he just really didn’t want to be alone. Clambering over Dad to get to the middle seems like a whole lot of work right now and—

Dad wraps his arm around his back and pulls Maes into his chest. Maes doesn’t even realize he’s crying again until he feels the wetness on Dad’s shirt.

“Oh, Maes,” Dad whispers softly, “It’ll be alright, kiddo. It will.”

Maes wishes he believed him.

000

The next morning starts with a phone call from Shireen. There’s rain in Resembool, and bad flooding as a result. The train to Central has been delayed at least a day. The horrible news is slightly balanced by a visit from Aunt Gracia that afternoon.

“You certainly know how to find trouble, sweetheart,” Aunt Gracia says when she arrives, petting the back of his head as she hugs him.

“Aunt Gracia, the trouble always just finds me,” Maes says into her stomach. Aunt Gracia hugs him tighter.

“Oh, Maesy,” she sighs. Aunt Gracia’s the only person besides Nijah and sometimes Mom who calls him Maesy anymore. He’s sure Mom and Dad talked to Gracia before they named him Maes, he’s sure they tried to be sensitive and ask her permission. And Maes is also sure Aunt Gracia gave it because she is sweet and kind and wonderful, and she appreciated the fact that Mom and Dad wanted to honor her husband.

But, he imagines, it’s probably hard for her to call him Maes. It probably makes her sad, and a sad Aunt Gracia is simply unacceptable. She can call him Maesy for the rest of his life if she likes.

He doesn’t mind.

He and Aunt Gracia go with his parents to the living room, and Mom calls for tea. They sit for a while and sip on tea, chatting idly about safe things; Elysia’s new promotion, a trip Tony and Gracia are planning south, her stepson Marcus’ acceptance to Central University. Until—

“Maesy, I made these for you,” Aunt Gracia says suddenly, pulling a wrapped bundle out of her bag. “It’s alright if you don’t want to eat them now, sweetheart, I understand. But they’re very soft, I made the recipe without the eggs and baked them halfway, so you don’t--,”

Maes carefully takes the bundle from her and pulls out a cookie. The consistency is different than usual, she’s right, they’re much softer and more malleable than her normal cookies. Obviously, they’re still going to be delicious, Aunt Gracia, the woman who taught _Winry_ how to make _pie,_ made them.

Everyone watches silently with bated breath as Maes stares at the cookie. And when he finally takes a bite, everyone smiles.

Then, he tastes the chocolate in the middle and spits it all back up.

He spits, then he pukes on the old and probably very expensive run in the living room, all the while struggling and stuttering for breath.

“NO!” Maes yelps, “NO, nononononono--,” And his throat his closing, his heart is positively _racing_ , his hands are tingling, there’s nothing left to puke, but he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_. Chocolate is bad, chocolate kills you, it kills Dad and Maes because Cook wants Dad dead, but Cook was his friend and now she’s an almost-murderer and she’s going to jail, she might die, they’ll kill her for what she did; nobody says it to Maes but he’s nine, he understands things. And now everything’s going to go gray again, then black and black and black because he ate the stupid chocolate and he’ll be dead and gone forever, dead in the ground and they’ll cover him with dirt and everyone will cry and he didn’t get to say I love you, he didn’t tell them, and--

“Maes.” Mom is there again. Mom is there, and he’s on the ground again, but this time she doesn’t look terrified. She just looks indescribably sad.

“Maes,” she says again, pulling him into her lap, holding his head to her chest. “Honey, you have to breathe. Breathe with me. In--,” and Mom sucks in a long breath, “and out,” whooshing all the air out of her lungs.

Eventually he does it. He breathes with his mother, and listens to the beat of her heart against his ear.

He breathes and listens and pretends he can’t hear Dad and Aunt Gracia in the kitchen.

He’s not supposed to make Aunt Gracia cry.

000

Maes doesn’t come down for dinner, tells his parents he’s too tired. When they come up with a tray, he feigns sleep, curling up in a ball on his side and ignoring the food completely.

When Dad comes up an hour later to pick up the tray and check on him, Maes feigns sleep again.

Dad just sighs, tucks him better under the quilt, kisses his head and leaves with the tray.

A few hours later, Maes creeps down the stairs, hoping to get some milk from the kitchen. He pauses when he hears murmurs from the bannister.

“Maybe I should just retire, Riza. I know we said in two or three years, once things are ready for the election but, maybe, maybe it’s time to be finished.”

Mom lets out a hard breath, but doesn’t say anything. Dad continues.

“I mean, fuck, Riza, I became Fuhrer when Maes was what, six months old? I’ve been doing this his whole life, it almost _was_ his whole life--,” Dad chokes. “I missed things. I should’ve been here more and now….he needs us. More than Amestris ever needed me.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Roy, you don’t get to play the martyr here. Don’t act like you’ve been some terrible father. You’re a good dad. You’re a really good dad. If anything, I’m the one, I should’ve retired when he was born, hell, when we adopted the girls. I should’ve been home. It’s not like we would’ve even needed Cook if I was home--,” Mom takes a shuddering breath.

“Don’t be stupid, Riza. Your career matters, too. You’re irreplaceable. We’ve both—I thought we did it, you know? I thought we were those crazy people who actually found a good balance, figured out family and the job and everything worked out perfectly. And I thought--,” Dad chokes again, “I thought we’d managed to keep them safe. Riza, what do we do? How do we help him?”

Maes backtracks up the stairs before he hears Mom’s reply.

000

That night is the worst dream yet.

Maes is lying in a…box. A box. It’s red and tall and—a phone booth? He’s lying at the floor of the phone booth and there’s blood everywhere, so so so much blood, just spreading from his body and soaking his pants and shoes and socks. And his glasses are all askew and cracked, as the person before him, the stranger (but not a stranger, never a stranger) with a gun shoots and shoots and shoots. First it’s Aunt Gracia, a horrible stretched smile on her face. Then it’s Mom, eyes focused with a cruel smirk. Then Trisha and Nijah and Shireen and Elysia and Rebecca and Nina and Winry and then Cook and she shoots and shoots and shoots—

All the while, the phone’s hanging by his head, right by his ear, and Dad’s screaming at him, begging and pleading with him to pick up the phone, Maes what’s wrong, what’s going on—

And Maes dies.

000

Later, Maes will not be able to explain, nor remember how he ends up where he does. All he knows, when he wakes up from his dream, is he needs to get _out_. He needs to get out, to get away and not be Maes Mustang anymore. He needs to escape the box and the ground and be outside and free, free from this horrible terror that has consumed his life.

So Maes creeps out of his room, scrambles down the trellis outside Shireen’s window, and runs into the dark of the night.

He’s aware enough to keep to the shadows, to avoid being seen. And he just runs. And when he’s exhausted, when he can no longer run, he walks. And when his bare feet begin to bleed he crawls.

Eventually he collapses under a tree and finally sleeps without dreams.

000

“Maes,” a voice says sharply, a hand lightly slapping his cheek, “Maes, wake up.”

Maes opens his eyes to find Elysia Hughes crouching in front on him.

He immediately scrambles back, banging his head painfully on the tree trunk because Elysia killed him. Elysia had a gun and a horrible cruel smile like Aunt Gracia and she shot him dead in the phone booth and—

“Maes, Maes, hush sweetie, it’s okay,” Elysia says softly, pulling him up into her arms, putting a soft and calloused hand to his forehead and frowning slightly.

“What’s—Elysia, what’s—where am I?” Maes gasps, breathing fast. He sits up a bit and Elysia grabs his shoulder tight. The sky is pink, the sun just beginning to rise over a hill in the distance. They’re under a tree, in a grassy field dotted with poplars and cedars. There’s a path nearby, and a bench, and—

“Why are we at the cemetery?” Maes whispers.

Elysia doesn’t respond. She just shrugs out of her jacket and puts it around his shoulders.

It’s a blue military jacket, like Mom and Dad and Shireen’s, with the gold braids and buckles. Elysia must’ve been on her way to work. There’s a bouquet of flowers on the ground beside her.

“If you don’t know your why, I’m much more interested in your how. How did you get here, Maes?” Elysia asks quietly, helping him slip his arms through the sleeves of her jacket. He’s still in his pajamas. “You didn’t steal a car or something, did you?”

“I think—I think I walked.” They both look down at his feet and wince. Elysia’s green eyes widen, and Maes knows she probably has some choice four-letter words on the tip of her tongue. But Elysia’s always had a much better filter than Shireen.

“Alright then,” Elysia says, before hefting Maes into her arms like he weighs nothing and settling him on her hip. She picks up the flowers and hands them to him. “Hang on to these, will you?”

Maes wonders when Elysia got so strong. He wonders when she got so _tall_.

“Where are we goin’?” Maes asks tiredly, resting his head on her shoulder. He clutches the flowers to his chest.

“We need to call your parents. They’ve probably got the whole city on lockdown by now, but I guarantee nobody’s looking for you here.”

Maes closes his eyes. “Maybe that’s why I came here, then.”

He’s asleep before he hears Elysia’s response.

000

“Yes, the code is Uncle, Sugar, Oliver, Eight, Zero, Zero…..Thank you…………Roy…yeah, it’s me. Listen, I found Maes…..We’re at the cemetery….he says he walked here….I don’t know, he’s pretty out of it, I think he has a fever. He’s sleeping now. His feet are a mess, so I think he really did walk…..No, I don’t think he needs hospital. He just needs to go home…………….hey, no don’t be like that, you’ve had so much happen. I understand, Roy, and you know Dad would, too. Don’t feel bad…..Just come get your Maes. We’re across from the north gates….yeah, I will….Bye, Roy.”

Elysia hangs up the phone, and Maes clenches his eyes shut, his breath wheezing. She’s on the phone. They’re in a phone booth.

“Maes?” Elysia asks.

“No, I don’t want—get out, Elysia, we have to get out, get out of here, _no_ \--,” Maes gasps. Elysia hitches him up her side and walks out of the phone booth, down the path to sit on a bench. Maes finally opens his eyes.

“Better?” Elysia asks, eyes soft. Maes just nods and bites his lip, finally slipping out of Elysia’s arms. She shakes her head disparagingly and wraps an arm around his shoulders, still keeping him close.

“I’m so scared. I’m so scared all the time, and I don’t know why. I just—everything was normal, and then I ate that stupid cake and it feels like the world is about to end every minute of every day. I’m so tired of being scared, Elysia.” Maes admits tearfully, leaning his head on her shoulder.

Elysia lets her cheek rest on top of his head. “I didn’t let my mom out of sight for almost a year after Dad died.” She says quietly. “I slept in bed with her every night, I should’ve been in preschool, but, God, the tantrums I threw. I was horrible.

“But I was just so afraid. Because Dad left for work one day, just like any other, said he’d be back that night, and then—and then he wasn’t.” Elysia lets out a shuddering breath. “And I was so afraid if I couldn’t see Mom, she would disappear, too.”

Maes scoffs through his tears, “But you were a baby, Elysia, just a little baby and your Dad _died_ , that—it makes sense. I didn’t even die, only almost died, and I’m _nine_ \--,”

Elysia grips him tighter. “Yes, Maes. You’re only nine. And you went through something horrible, it’s normal to be scared. I think—I know you’re smart, Maes, you’re so smart, and observant. You understand that so many of the people you love have lived very dangerous lives. They’ve had a lot of bad things happen to them. And I think your worst fear, one you dreaded but were probably prepared for, well, it was one of them dying.

“You didn’t expect to be the one to die. You weren’t prepared for that. You aren’t ready to go, Maes.”

Why does Elysia have to be so smart?

Maes turns his head and soaks the shoulder of Elysia’s dress shirt with tears as he sobs, rubbing his snot on the sleeve of her jacket. Elysia doesn’t complain; she just pulls him into her lap again.

“The world’s always going to be scarier than it was before, but you can’t—you can’t let the fear rule you, kiddo. If you do, you’re never going to live, and that would be even worse.

“But—no being stupid, either. No more five mile barefoot pajama runs. No more starving yourself. You hear me?” She says, trying and failing to sound stern. Maes nearly smiles. Elysia rubs comforting circles into his back.

“Mom told me, after Daddy died, that he was up in heaven. He was an angel watching over me. I wasn’t sure I liked that, I knew Dad was a good person, but I figured he might get a bit bored as an angel.

“I asked your dad once, where he thought mine was now. He told me Dad was on the other side of the Gate, learning about everything and anything. I like that one a little better, because my dad always liked to learn, he liked to know things. But then, if he was learning so much, how could he be with me still? How could he watch me?

“I asked Shireen a few years later, where she believed her and Nijah’s parents were. She told me in Ishval, it’s believed that after you die, you become one with everything. You are the trees and the grass and the sky. You are the birds and the rain in the snow. You are one and you are all. That sounded pretty nice to me, but it also meant Dad wasn’t really my dad anymore, he was everything and I thought that was a bit weird.

“And then, Ed and Al wrote their book. Have you ever read it?” Maes blushes a little and shakes his head. Elysia gives him a small smile. “Maybe someday you will. But they think, well, they think after you die, you come back. They think that death isn’t the end, but a new beginning, and you’re a little baby who gets to do it all over again, and again, and again. And we’ve all lived hundreds, maybe thousands of times, learning and loving and growing.

“I don’t know what I believe, Maes. But I do know that my father was a very good, truly kind person, and if Equivalent Exchange really does apply to everything, he should be somewhere wonderful now.

“And maybe he is gone to me, but he’s not really, he’ll never be gone all the way. He’ll always be in my head and in my heart. I’ll see him in my pictures and in my smile. And nobody will ever, ever let me forget how much he loved me. Goodness, it’s been nineteen years and I have strangers who come up to me at work and know my name, tell me about a time Dad spent an hour showing off his pictures and describing in painful detail how wonderful I was at throwing spaghetti.”

Elysia laughs slightly before sniffling. “I’m so, so glad you didn’t, but even if you had died, Maes, you wouldn’t be gone, not truly. You’ve left so many pieces of yourself, touched so many people’s lives, just like my dad. You’re a good person, Maes, you would’ve gone somewhere good, I know that. And I know not being scared anymore isn’t as easy as me telling you. But I think, well, sweetie, as long as you stay good and have love in your heart, death doesn’t have to be so scary, when it eventually comes. Maybe it’s even a new beginning.”

When did Elysia get so _wise_?

“You’re a really good person, too, Elysia,” Maes says into her shoulder, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry your dad’s gone. But wherever he is, he must be so proud of you. I know it.”

Elysia just kisses the top of his head and hugs him tighter.

000

“Thank you so much, Elysia,” Dad says softly, pulling Maes out of his doze. He’s with Dad now, his head nestled under Dad’s chin, with Dad’s arms under his shoulders and knees. Maes should be angry, he thinks, because Dad’s carrying him like a baby, and Maes isn’t a baby he’s nine whole years old already and it’s about time he started acting like it again. Then he smells Dad’s aftershave, and the familiar laundry soap, and that weird hint of bonfire and ozone and Maes just feels safe.

Maybe Elysia’s right. Maybe nine isn’t so old after all.

000

Maes sleeps during the drive. When they get home, Dad takes him to the bathroom, and Mom meets them there, washing Maes’ feet in the tub and bandaging the scratches and cuts. Then they get him in some new clean pajamas and bundle him into bed.

There seems to be some unspoken agreement between Mom and Dad not to discuss Maes’….well, whatever it was that Maes did the night before. They just sit in his room with him; Mom makes tea and Dad pulls in the portable radio. They do their paperwork while Maes naps, and read aloud to him while he’s awake.

In the afternoon, Dad convinces Mom to go into the office, when they think Maes is still asleep. “Riza, just go,” Dad whispers. “You planned to anyway. He’ll be alright, I’m not moving.” Eventually, Mom concedes, and Dad keeps his promise, sitting next to Maes on his bed, running his fingers lightly through Maes’ hair as he reads the files on his lap.

His parents are acting like he’s sick, and maybe, maybe he is. But it’s not a normal sick for Maes, like a head cold or the flu. Something inside him, inside his heart is just so….unsettled. Ever since he’s gotten home from the hospital, once he was awake longer than a few minutes at a time and had a chance to really comprehend what had happened to him, he’s just been so unhappy. So distressed.

So terrified.

But, every other time he’s been sick in his life, sneezing and coughing and retching, he eventually gets better. Eventually, the misery passes and the sickness goes away.

Maes has a feeling, no matter how strange and new this sickness is, it can go away, too. Because, just like every other time he’s been sick in his life, his family is here to take care of him. 

“Dad,” Maes finally says softly, opening his eyes. Everything’s blurry with his glasses off, but it’s easy enough to read the concern on his father’s face.

“Yeah, kiddo?” Dad’s hand stops brushing, and just rests lightly at the top of his head.

“I just—I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.”

Dad’s hand slides down from the top of Maes’ head to his cheek. “Oh, Maesy, don’t be sorry. Please don’t.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I owe you so many apologies, kiddo. I’m so sorry.”

Maes scoots himself over and lets his head rest on Dad’s leg.

Dad gave Maes his poisoned cake. Dad hired his once good friend Cook. Dad killed Cook’s son.

“I’ve been so worried—well, I’ve been worried about you and your sisters ever since you came into our lives—but lately, I’ve just, I was so terrified about Shireen at Briggs, and Shireen getting sick and Nijah’s automail surgery. I thought you were the one I didn’t have to be scared for. You were right here the whole time, right next to me. Turns out that was the most dangerous place of all. I’m so sorry, Maes.”

Dad sounds like he’s crying, but Maes can’t see it. His face is turned to the files on Dad’s lap. He reaches out his hand and traces his fingers on the folder.

“You always make me feel safe, Dad. You keep me safe.”

Dad’s breath catches, and he brushes his fingers through Maes’ hair once again.

And he feels safe.

000

That night, Maes has his most vivid dream yet.

 _“You do realize my dear, sweet, wonderful Gracia went to_ very _great pains to set you up with her lovely friend, correct?”_

_Roy just takes a long swig from his glass before slamming it on the bar and eyeing the bartender again._

_“What was wrong with this one, Roy?”_

_Roy shrugs, and watches the bartender refill his cup, avoiding Maes’ searching gaze._

_“Not your type?”_

_Roy shrugs again, and takes another swig from his now full glass, emptying half of it in one go._

_“Yes, I suppose Vanessa is distinctly lacking blonde hair, brown eyes, and a proclivity for firearms.”_

_Roy slams the glass down so hard Maes is surprised it doesn’t shatter._

_“We’re not talking about this again, Maes.”_

_Maes rolls his eyes. “’Oh we’re just_ friends _. She’s like my little_ sister _, I love her like_ family _.’ I’ve never heard so much bullshit in all my life. You, Roy Mustang, are truly, madly and deeply in love, and seeing you in denial is positively painful to watch.”_

_Roy huffs out a sigh. “Maes--,”_

_“Nope, nope, I don’t want to hear it anymore, this is ridiculous, you’re being ridiculous. You love her, and even a blind man could see that she loves you, too. She’s not a jewelry person and she wears those earrings you gave her every damn day, for God’s sake, Roy.”_

_“How did you know I gave her those?”_

_Maes smiles like a shark. “I didn’t. I guessed.”_

_Roy holds his head in his hands and mumbles something._

_“What’s that, Roy?”_

_“I don’t deserve her.”_

_Maes rolls his eyes again, then grabs one of Roy’s wrists and drags his hand away from his face. “Fine. I don’t agree with you, but fine. Do you think Riza deserves to be happy?”_

_“Of course she does.”_

_“Well, what if the only person who can make her happy is_ you _?”_

_Roy doesn’t have an answer for that._

_“Oh my God, please just go tell her how you feel. Go, get married, have babies, the whole shebang. Be happy.”_

_“You know we can’t, you idiot. We couldn’t work together if we did.”_

_“Then don’t_ tell _anybody now.” Maes says in a staged whisper. “Forbidden love can be very fun. Makes things interesting. Gracia’s mother actually didn’t like me much--,”_

 _“_ MAES.”

_Maes has a very clever, well-articulated and witty response on the tip of his tongue when the door of the bar opens, and he sees the couple walking down the street in front._

_“Oh. Um. Roy, you may want to speed up the whole telling Hawkeye your feelings thing,” Maes says, standing up and laying some coins on the bar, dragging Roy hurriedly to the door._

_“What? Maes--,”_

_Maes pushes Roy out to the street._

_The rest happens very quickly._

_Roy sprints toward Riza and the tall handsome dickwad attempting to drag her into the alley, pulling out his gloves—and why the hell is Roy bringing his_ gloves _when he’s out drinking? The once drunkenly stumbling Riza Hawkeye takes down her attempted assaulter in short order because she’s a fucking badass, and honestly if Maes was not incandescently happily married to the most wonderful woman in the world with a baby on the way, Roy would have competition._

_Then the dastardly coward scrambles away, and the terrified coward grabs Hawkeye’s hand under the streetlight. Maes can’t hear what they’re saying._

_But he has a feeling they’ll be okay. They might even finally be happy._

_They better fucking name a kid after him, after what they’ve put him through._

000

When Maes wakes up, he’s in his parents’ bedroom, nestled between Mom and Dad. They must’ve moved him before they went to bed to keep an eye on him. Dad’s arm is slung across his stomach, and he’s snoring in Maes’ ear.

Maes turns over to see his mother’s eyes staring at him.

“I’m happy you’re my parents,” Maes whispers to her softly. “I’m happy I’m yours. I’m so glad I’m here.”

Riza’s knowing eyes grow wide and wet with tears, and she grabs his hand.

“Seems you’re stuck with us, Maes. For better or worse.”

000

The next morning, Maes doesn’t remember his dream, nor waking up in the middle of the night when Mom asks about it.

But he has bacon and eggs for breakfast. When he asks for seconds, his parents cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went for the Maes Hughes feels. I have #noregrets. Okay, maybe #someregrets. Ugh sorry now I'm finished.


	9. Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is full of surprises, even for the Mustangs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! Lolololol i'm back. 
> 
> THEY WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE.

1923 – East City

“Girls!” Riza says loudly up the stairs as she ascends them, “Girls, breakfast is ready! Hurry up or we’re going to be late for school. And have you seen—Oh!”

Riza nearly yelps as she enters the girls’ bathroom. Nijah is sitting on the top of the closed toilet seat, her thick white hair in adorable braided buns on top of her head.

Nijah’s watching Shireen closely, studying the braided crown across the top of her sister’s head as she stands before the mirror.

And Roy’s standing behind her, tongue stuck out in concentration as he ties off the end of the elaborate Aerugean braid. 

“Oooh, Shireen, it looks so pretty! It’s like you have a tiara in your hair. Morning Mommy!” Nijah says happily, finally looking up and finding Riza standing quietly in her shocked silence at the door.

“Morning, sweetie. Breakfast is ready.”

“Okay! Mommy, look at my pretty braids! Daddy’s so good at it!” Nijah says happily, limping to the door.

“I daresay he is,” Riza agrees, looking up at Roy. He’s red-faced, and Shireen is smirking, but neither acknowledge the comment, refusing to break their concentration on Roy’s handiwork.

“Dad, it’s perfect,” Shireen complains, “It was perfect the first time, too, and the second. Stop looking for non-existent bumps, we have to go!”

Roy runs his hand across the braid softly and searchingly before tying a blue ribbon at the end and nodding in consent. Shireen beams at him, then at Riza before running out the door.

“Where on earth did you learn how to braid hair?” Riza finally asks, leaning against the doorframe and blocking Roy’s escape.

Roy shrugs his shoulders. He’s _blushing_.

Riza bites her lips together to smother her laugh, waiting on an answer.

Roy mumbles something as he puts away the brush and comb.

“What’s that, Roy?” Roy sighs.

“Fullmetal taught me.”

Riza gapes at him.

Her husband got _Edward Elric_ to teach him not just to braid, but to do elaborate, difficult Aerugean braids so he would know how to do their daughters’ hair.

Roy nearly doesn’t catch Riza when she jumps him, shocked as he is.

And then she kicks the door shut as she kisses him, curling her arms around his neck and running her hand through his hair.

Sweet, domestic Dad Roy is a new side of her husband Riza is just beginning to see.

And she finds it very, _very_ attractive.

000

1928 – Central City

“Just tell us what happened. We just want to know what happened,” Roy says, fighting and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “You don’t all have to get in trouble.”

“LIAR!”

“NEVER!”

“WE WILL NEVER BREAK!”

“Quiet.” Riza says sharply, and all three of their children fall silent, slumping together on the sofa before them, finally looking chastised. Proving, once again, that Roy may be the leader of Amestris, but in this house Riza is the one with the real power.

“Who broke the lamp?” Riza asks quietly, looking back to the corner where the glittering, multi-colored pieces of a once very old and expensive lamp still lay. Roy watches his wife first turn to Shireen; her face is cool and impassive. She turns next to Nijah, who has a sweet little smirk on her face.

Finally, Riza looks at Maes, squished between his sisters on the sofa.

Riza smiles, and Roy knows the kids are done for.

“I think you know something, my Maesy,” Riza says sweetly, soft smile on her face. Maes scrunches up his nose and wrings his hands in his lap. Shireen puts a tight hand around his shoulder and squeezes.

“No, Mommy, I don’t,” Maes says softly, brown eyes big and wide. And it’s a good thing Riza’s in charge of this because there’s no fucking way in hell Roy could ever punish that sweet little face.

“Are you sure, Maesy?” Riza asks, crouching down and putting a hand on Maes’ knee. Now Nijah’s glaring at Riza, too. “Because I think there’s something in it for you, if you tell me, honey. Maybe chocolate milk with dinner, hmmm? Maybe all week even.”

Roy watches all three of his children pale and nearly doesn’t hold back his snort.

“Fight it, Squirt. Fight her!”

“Don’t break, Maesy!”

Maes closes his eyes tightly.

“Nope. No, Mommy, I don’t know nothin’.”

Riza stands up and lets out a dramatic sigh. “That’s too bad. I was going to ask Cook to make chocolate cake with dinner tomorrow night, too, if you told me. I guess Daddy and I will be the only ones who--,”

“It was Hayate!” Maes yelps, before slapping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

“No!” Nijah cries, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh, Maes,” Shireen says with a tragic sigh.

“What do you mean, it was Hayate?” Roy finally asks. Maes starts to cry.

“I was rollin’ the ball around with Hayate like I always do and—and I rolled it to the wall, but puppy missed! He missed and ran into the lamp and—Daddy, Daddy I think Hayate’s going……blind.” Maes is whispering by the end, tears trailing down his round cheeks.

“Don’t you dare give our dog away--,”

“You can’t put him down, you can’t! He can’t help it it’s not his fault--,”

“He’s just a little old, and we’ll watch out for him--,”

“Roger said—he said his puppy couldn’t see or hear no more ‘cause he was sick and his parents sent the puppy to a farm--,”

“We love him so much!”

“Quiet.” Riza says again, but without the ice of last time. Everyone falls silent immediately. “We aren’t sending Hayate to a farm, and we definitely aren’t putting him down. He’s family and we love him and he’s staying right here no matter what. Not being able to see certainly doesn’t make one useless,” Riza adds at the end, and Roy feels himself grinning slightly.

“So—so puppy stays with us?” Maes asks uncertainly.

“Of course puppy stays with us.” Roy says firmly.

All three of his children beam.

000

“What are you doing?” Riza asks him that night, watching as he writes on the pad on his bedside table.

“Just making sure we remember to call the vet tomorrow,” Roy answers. He startle when Riza lets out a loud snort.

“Oh for God’s sake, Roy, you can’t be serious.”

He looks at Riza, confusion mounting. “Don’t you think Hayate--,”

“Hayate had a checkup less than a month ago. His hearing isn’t what it used to be, but that dog is by no means going blind, I promise you.”

What?

“What? Then why did--,”

Riza laughs, loud and bright.

“Roy Mustang, our children played you like a fiddle.”

Roy’s stomach drops to his toes.

“You mean—they—oh my _God_.”

Riza snorts again. “I’m guessing Maes and Nijah we’re playing that stupid ‘the floor is lava’ game they made up, and one of them finally slipped. Shireen had dance class ‘til late this afternoon, she was probably just helping them out.”

“They lied. They lied about the fucking _dog_ going fucking _blind_ to _me_. Oh my God.” Roy puts a hand over his eyes. “We’ve created monsters.”

Riza just laughs again. Roy moves his hand and glares at her.

“This isn’t funny, Riza. And why the hell did you let them get away with it?” Riza shrugs her shoulders and smiles. “Oh, Lord, you’re _pleased_ with them, aren’t you?” Roy asks, realization finally setting, “You’re _proud_ of them. Oh for God’s sake, Riza, why?”

Riza bites her lip to hold back a smile, and settles her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know. I mean, they’re really rather good if you didn’t catch them. And I just—I like that they get along so well. I like that they look out for each other. It makes me happy.”

Roy can’t help but smile a bit at that. His children certainly love each other, but the fact that they _like_ each other, that they are friends, is really a lovely thing to see.

“Plus,” Riza continues, “You can probably fix it with alchemy. Either way, I never liked that lamp much. I’d really say they did us a favor, it was rather ugly.”

Roy just snorts and shakes his head disparagingly. He and Riza have created monsters.

But they are their monsters. Cute and sweet and adorably lying monsters who love each other dearly and get along so well.

It’s not such a bad thing.

000

1929 – Central City

“Everyone ready?” Shireen asks with a smile, picking up the breakfast tray. Maes nods happily, snatching the vase from the table.

“I got the flowers!” he announces proudly. His sisters beam at him.

“Are you sure you can do the coffee, Nijah?” Shireen asks, and Nijah rolls her eyes.

“Yes, Sissy, I can. My balance really isn’t that bad, you know,” she answers, brushing Sissy off.

“Let’s go!” Maes yelps, rushing out of the kitchen with the vase. His sisters whisper shout after him to wait for him, but he’s just so _excited_. Because today, today is Mommy and Daddy’s anniversary, their _tenth_ anniversary, and Nijah and Shireen say that means today is extra special and they have to be extra nice to Mommy and Daddy.

Breakfast in bed was Maes’ idea. Nijah and Shireen didn’t let him do anything on the stove, but he picked the flowers from the garden.

He’s rather proud.

Quietly, the Mustang siblings make their way up the steps, Maes in the lead. Nijah and Shireen walk carefully to keep from spilling. Maes reaches the master bedroom door first.

“Maes, wait we should kno--,” Maes bursts through the door before Shireen can finish.

“SURPRISE! HAPPY ANNIV—oh,” Maes doesn’t continue. He just tilts his head to the side, rather confused by what he sees.

Shireen screams, and stops abruptly in the doorway. Nijah yelps, sloshing coffee up their sister’s back. She screams again, and drops the breakfast tray. Eggs and bacon and toast and jam go flying all over the floor.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Nijah is gasping.

Shireen wraps her arm around Maes’ waist, picking him up quickly, and covers his eyes with her other hand.

“Oh my God, oh my God my eyes. Maes’ eyes! Nijah shield your eyes oh my GOD!” Shireen shrieks, abandoning the fallen breakfast and rushing them all out the door.

She grabs Nijah’s hand and pulls her down the hallway, down the stairs, not stopping or setting Maes down until they’re all three in the kitchen once again. Her face is pale and her breath is absolutely heaving. She looks ill.

“Oh my God,” Shireen mumbles. “Oh dear Lord.”

“Sissy,” Nijah asks quietly, “Sissy, is your back okay? I’m so sorry,” Shireen waves her off.

“It’s fine Nijah, I’m fine. It mostly just stained my pajamas.” Shireen puts her face in her hands. “Oh my God I’ve been scarred for life.”

Nijah rolls her eyes. “Well, I mean, it is their anniversary. And isn’t, well, isn’t it supposed to be beautiful? Create life, show unity in marriage, and be an expression of their love and all those nice things?”

Shireen looks up with a glower, before she puts her face in her hands again. “Ugh, Nijah, can’t you just be a normal, grossed-out twelve year old for once in your life!”

“I don’t understand,” Maes finally pipes up. “What were Mommy and Daddy doin’? Were they wrestling? It looked like Daddy was winning. And where were their jammies?”

Nijah and Shireen don’t get a chance to answer, as Mommy and Daddy appear in the kitchen door. They both have jammies on now, with housecoats on top. Daddy has the tray and remains of the breakfast they worked so hard on and got up so early for in his hands. Mommy has the empty coffee mugs.

Silence for a moment.

“There is a reason,” Shireen begins, voice very hard, “that bedroom doors have _locks_.”

Daddy opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, before snapping it shut and simply nodding. Maes has never seen his face so _red_ before.

“Is your back alright, Shireen?” Mommy asks quietly. Shireen simply nods. Even _Mommy’s_ cheeks are flushed.

Silence again.

It is broken by Nijah’s loud peals of laughter.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nijah gasps around her guffaws, wiping tears from her eyes, “Just, oh my goodness, that was so funny! Shireen just went completely mad, and you!” Nijah looks up at Mommy and Daddy, eyes bright, “Oh goodness, you’re so _embarrassed_. I’ve never seen either of you so red before! And then Maes wants to know if you were wrestling oh my _goodness_ \--,” Nijah starts laughing too hard to speak, tears streaming down her face.

Soon they’re all laughing, breathless with tears in their eyes, and Maes isn’t really exactly sure _why_ , but laughing with his family is fun, and he can’t make himself stop now. Maybe breakfast in bed didn’t exactly work out, but today still seems really extra special. Certainly not an anniversary that any one of them will ever forget.

He’ll just have to ask his questions again later.

000

1934 – Central City

“Oh God, I’m so full! I don’t think I can move for the rest of my life at least,” Shireen complains, staring at the half eaten piece of her third slice of birthday cake sitting before her. Everybody laughs. Nijah stands up to retrieve the last gift of the night.

“I hope that’s a joke, Sissy, because I have one last present for you.”

Shireen smiles, “Nijah! But you already gave me this very lovely scarf,” she says, fingering the satiny purple scarf she’d immediately wrapped around her neck after opening.

“Oh, Sissy, that was just part one!” Nijah says with a smirk, finally handing over the thin square package.

“And what on earth is this?” Shireen asks, “Have you wrapped up your homework for me again, I told you I wouldn’t—oh. _Oh._ Oh, Nijah. Oh, God, where did you _find_ this?” Shireen has tears in her eyes.

Nijah sniffs. “I’ve been looking for it for years and I finally, it was just a month ago, I’d kind of given up by then and I _found_ it, Sissy, I was at the record shop and it was just _there_. It was like a miracle.”

Shireen hugs the familiar record sleeve to her chest and closes her eyes.

“Ishvala’s winking at us,” Shireen whispers softly, and Nijah bites back a sob, remembering Mama’s name for all the lovely serendipitous moments in their lives.

“Maes,” Nijah calls out, clearing her throat, “Maes did you--,”

“All ready!” Maes calls out, dragging the record player into the adjoining, rarely used ballroom. She gives him a thumbs up, and the familiar drumbeat echoes through the dining room. Shireen holds a hand over her mouth, tears making her red eyes bright.

Nijah steps back and gives her sister a formal bow, before reaching out her hand with smile, “May I have this dance, my sweetness?” Papa’s long-forgotten invitation.

Shireen bites her lip. “Only for you, my dear one,” Mama’s familiar response. And Shireen grabs her hand, kicking off her shoes rushing from the dining room as their parents and the Elrics follow behind curiously.

“Do you—do you remember it, Nijah?”

Nijah smiles. “Never forgot. I’ve been practicing Papa’s part.”

Shireen smirks. “So that’s why you wanted me to wear this skirt so bad tonight.” Nijah nods.

“Well, alright then. Lead the way.” Together they go to the middle of the ballroom and finally face the audience gathered. Just before the music reaches its melody, echoing happily from the ceiling, Nijah and Shireen bow to one another. Shireen flourishes off her scarf with her right hand and flips it to the sky.

And then, they dance.

They spin, and they twirl and they jump, the familiar steps and motions of their childhood coming back like riding a bicycle. It’s been a few years since Shireen’s last ballet class, but the strength and grace have not left her sister. She grabs Nijah’s hands and leaps and spirals, long white hair gliding behind her and a radiant smile on her face.

Shireen is beautiful.

And Nijah? Nijah’s _flying_.

She stomps and claps and leaps and twists. She hears the gasps when she drops to the ground and automatically kicks out her feet and smiles. When she jumps up parallel to the ground and spirals, she relishes the shocked yelps. And when she picks up her older sister and starts spinning them both round and round and round, always her favorite part of the dance, Nijah laughs.

When they reach the end, the terrible, wonderful end, and the sisters jump and link hands, kicking out their feet behind them, Nijah suddenly breaks away. She hasn’t practiced this yet. It’s not part of the traditional dance.

But it’s part of _Papa’s_ dance.

Nijah’s sees the realization in Shireen’s eyes just before she does it, sees the mirth, and maybe a little fear, but mostly just the love and happiness.

So, for the first time in her life, Nijah jumps back and tucks herself in a ball, flipping behind and landing in a kneel.

The music ends. Nijah’s breath heaves. But before she can look at their audience, before she can stand and take a bow, Nijah is tackled to the ground by her big sister.

“Oh, _Nijah_ ,” Shireen gasps, sobbing into her shoulder, “Nijah that was _wonderful._ I missed dancing with you so much.”

Nijah pets her sister’s hair as their audience approaches them.

It seems Shireen is not the only person Nijah’s made cry tonight.

Mom and Dad look, for the first time in Nijah’s memory, completely stunned, tears dripping down their cheeks. Ed is animatedly trying to convince no one in particular that Nijah absolutely needs to learn martial arts, with a core strength and reach like _that_. Trisha, Sammy and Maes are off to the side, already trying and failing to mimic the sisters’ dance moves and begging to be taught.

Aunt Winry is sobbing. 

“This is why I love my job!” she wails into Ed’s shoulder as he holds her tight. “Oh that was so beautiful, it was so _beautiful_ \--,”

“All thanks to you,” Nijah tells Winry softly. “I missed being graceful. Thank you so much, Winry.”

Winry doesn’t stop crying for a long, long time.

000

1935 – Central City

“Major Khadem-Mustang, it’s so wonderful to see you!” Mrs. Smithers says with a smile as Shireen enters her father’s office.

“Mrs. Smithers, you’ve known me since I was ten. You can call me Shireen.”

Mrs. Smithers waves a hand and scoffs. “Certainly not in this office, dearie. You’re an important officer of the Amestrian army, and a State Alchemist to boot. I’ll give you the recognition you deserve.” Shireen decides not the mention that fact that most officers probably aren’t called ‘dearie.’ Instead she smiles and shakes her head, taking a seat before Mrs. Smithers’ desk and stealing a peppermint from the eternally and magically always full bowl.

“Dad have a meeting?”

“Yes, ma’am, ten more minutes and he should be finished and ready to go to lunch with you. You know how Colonel Linton loves to talk.” Shireen nods knowingly and eats her peppermint.

Shireen has just finished polishing her pocket watch a few minutes later, stomach grumbling, when she notices Mrs. Smithers squirm.

“Erm, Mrs. Smithers, do you need to use the ladies’ room?”

Mrs. Smithers grimaces.

“Oh, no, dearie, it’s fine, all fine.” But Mrs. Smithers continues to squirm.

“Mrs. Smithers--,”

“I’m expecting a phone call right now. I’ll go once they finally call.” Mrs. Smithers has begun to sweat.

“I’ll take a message for you, Mrs. Smithers. Seriously, just go, it’s fine.” Shireen has barely finished her sentence before Mrs. Smithers is flying from the room.

Shireen smiles fondly, shaking her head at Mrs. Smithers’ antics, when the phone begins to ring.

“Um—yes, you’ve reached the Fuhrer’s office, may I ask what this is concerning?”  

“Oh, hello! This is Marilyn Ascot with the East City Children’s home.” Shireen’s stomach lurches at the warm and familiar voice. She’s a bit sad Ms. Marilyn doesn’t recognize her voice, but, she reasons, it’s not like she would’ve expected Shireen to pick up the phone, and it has been a few years since they’ve seen one another.

Shireen is about to say hello, to reveal herself to their old, sweet matron when—

“I’d just like to extend another thanks to Fuhrer Mustang and Colonel Hawkeye for their continued generosity. They’ll be receiving a note in the mail as well, but I wanted to call. So much of what we’ve accomplished at the home would never have been possible without their support, and not just financially, though that’s certainly been invaluable.”

“And you’re referencing the donation made on--?” Shireen asks lightly.

“June 14th.”

Nijah’s birthday.

When Ms. Marilyn gives the donation amount without being prompted, Shireen falls out of her chair.

“Are you alright miss?” Ms. Marilyn asks, sounding worried.

Shireen gulps. “Ah, yes, yes of course,” her voice high, “Just—I just sneezed. Yes, I’m fine, very fine. I’ll take a message for you, and be sure to pass along your thanks.”

Shireen slams the phone down before Ms. Marilyn can finish her goodbye.

000

That evening, Shireen goes home with Mom and Dad. She has her own apartment in the city, has for about a year now because she’s an adult, and she has a job and a boyfriend and money and why not? But sometimes, it’s just nice to go home.

And sometimes, Shireen just needs to snoop.

In the early hours of the morning, once she’s sure everyone else is asleep, Shireen sneaks down to Dad’s office and pulls out the old ledgers from the past twelve years.

Shireen learns three things:

  1. Mama Hawk and Daddy Mustang are fucking loaded.
  2. They have donated exorbitant amounts of money to the East City Children’s Home every year on Nijah’s birthday.
  3. They have donated the same exorbitant amount of money to the Children’s ward of the East City Hospital every year on Shireen’s birthday.



Shireen is hastily trying to wipe away the tear drops that have dripped onto the old 1923 ledger when Dad walks through the door.

“Shireen what have I told you about--,” Dad admonishes, before noticing her tears, “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Shireen shakes her head and slams the book shut, failing to swallow around the lump in her throat. Dad walks around to her side of the desk to see what she’s reading.

“What are you looking at old ledgers for? Worried about your inheritance or something?”

“Fuck no,” Shireen manages to gasp out. Oh _shit_. Mom and Dad are never allowed to die because she absolutely doesn’t want to be in charge of this fortune ever in her life.

“Then what’s wrong?” Dad asks again, putting a gentle hand on Shireen shoulder and looking her in the eye.

“I—I helped Mrs. Smithers with the phone when I was waiting for you for lunch, she had to go to the bathroom. Ms. Marilyn from the home called….”

“Ah.” Is all Dad offers as he bites his lip. “Yes, well….”

“I just—every year, Dad? Every single year? That’s….”Shireen doesn’t know what to say.

Dad sighs. “Shireen, between you and me, we have more money than we know what to do with, especially after Grumman left us everything. Might as well go somewhere good, somewhere we care about.”

Shireen looks back down at the 1923 ledger and sniffs. 

“And I never knew—all those adoption fees, and legal fees, and you guys, you expedited _everything_. I remember friends from the home having to wait months, and you just—and you didn’t have to adopt us, you could’ve fostered us first, been our guardians, but you—you and Mom,” Shireen wipes the tears off her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “I always knew you loved us. I just never realized how—how _wanted_ we were. You wanted us so much.”

Dad pulls her into a tight hug, hand on the back of her head.

“Shireen, I think Mom was ready to take you home with us the first day we met you.”

The shoulder of Dad’s pajamas grows wet with her tears.

“I’ll admit it took me a little longer, but I think that was more because it didn’t—I couldn’t even fathom that it was a possibility. But then you got sick and I was so—I hated that we had to leave you there every night. I hated that we couldn’t take care of you. And I just knew—for all the other kids, I wanted them to be adopted so badly, to find families and be happy. But just thinking about anyone else falling in love with you two and taking you home—it made me _sad_ , Shireen. So sad.

“Guess I just knew you were supposed to be ours.”

“But _why_? Why us? We weren’t happy, we weren’t by any means _healthy_ , and you—why on earth did you want us?” Shireen whispers into Dad’s shoulder. He hugs her tight before pulling away and grabbing her shoulders again.

“I wish you could see how easy it is to love you, Shireen. It’s always been like breathing, loving you and Nijah and Maes. And now, well, I don’t think I could live without it.”

Shireen doesn’t like to remember the months after the horrible car crash. She doesn’t like remembering Mama and Papa’s funeral and Nijah’s amputation and all of her own surgeries. It was a time full of pain, both physical and emotional. It was the first time Shireen felt truly hopeless.

And then she and Nijah had gone to the home, and these strange and beautiful people waltzed right into their lives. And Shireen wanted to hate them, truly she did. She wanted to scoff and sneer and make them feel the pain that she felt. The loss that they’d given. She wanted them to hurt like she did.

She managed to hate Ms. Riza about an hour.

But the Flame Alchemist—she held onto the hate for him.

He was evil. He was cruel and powerful and a terror. He burned down their home. He was the reason Nonna was dead. He razed villages and tore apart families. He was the villain of Abba’s bedtime stories from so long ago. He was—

Haunted. Burdened by guilt. Working hard to make amends.

He was good. Kind.

He was broken once. Broken worse than even Shireen. But he’d found a way to put himself together again.

And all he ever wanted was to help Shireen do the same.

“You’re a really good person, Dad. I ever tell you that?”

Dad smiles and uses his thumb to wipe away the tears on her cheek. “Love makes us good, kiddo. I owe a whole lot of the good in me to you.”

000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot of the middle one was stolen shamelessly from a Modern family episode. Idc i thought it was kinda hilarious. 
> 
> Also, I kinda looked into a lot of different dances for Nijah and Shireen's dance. I mean, I know I hardly even describe it, but if you wanna see what I had in mind, I settled on youtube videos of Russian folk dances to the song Kalinka. Idk it seemed fun. 
> 
> There will probably be more chapters because im a dork who doesn't know when to stop and I keep writing down ideas. Thanks if you're still reading, you're lovely.


	10. Burden and privilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda feels like I'm beating a dead horse with this storyline at this point, but this one's from Roy's POV so a little different. I just wanted to explore what Roy's like with Maes; i have so much interaction with Roy and the girls from his point of view, but none with Maes so far. 
> 
> About three-fourths of the way through this chapter I waffled on posting it. Seemed kind of implausible and all over the place. But then, I decided I didn't care because I'd been working on it a while and I do this for me. So, friends, here you go! Also, I did this one in google docs, so the formatting and spacing is kinda different? sorry if that bothers you.

1933 - Central City

 

“We’re going to have to amputate the leg further.” The doctor says it sadly, apologetically and softly as though he’s expecting an uproar.

 

Roy doesn’t respond. He does look up to meet the doctor’s eyes, which is more than can be said of Riza. Riza just sits there, staring blankly at Nijah as she holds her hand, just as she has the past three days.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Winry whispers, “I’m so, so sorry, I thought if we removed the port, with antibiotics it would be enough to get rid of the infection. But she--,” Winry trails off, tears dripping down her cheek.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Riza says dully. She still doesn’t look away from their daughter’s face, from her hand clasped with Nijah’s.

 

Because it’s not. It’s not Winry’s fault. She did her job, did it perfectly.

 

He and Riza are the ones who have epically and spectacularly failed at the only job that’s ever mattered.

 

Roy remembers a younger Riza, so, so young with short hair and dead eyes, dressed in a baggy uniform she was nowhere near growing into telling him that Ishval would be their worst. It would be their worst and they would get better. They would make it better.

 

She was wrong.

 

“We’ll need to start prepping her for surgery,” the doctor continues after an awkward silence. “We don’t really have time to waste. If there’s anyone you need to contact, do it now.

 

Roy and Riza don’t respond.

 

“Shireen,” Winry finally says, “I’ll go call Shireen, she’ll want to--,”

 

“I’ll do it.” Roy hasn’t spoken in roughly twelve hours, and his crackling voice betrays it. He knows there’s a dark, prickling shadow all over his jaw. His clothes are crumpled from overwear, and he probably needs a shower.

 

He doesn’t give one flying fuck.

 

Before anyone else can speak again, Roy stands, steadying himself on the back of the chair when the world grows spotted. He should probably eat sometime. Maybe drink some water.

 

He exits the room without a backward glance and heads down the hallway to the phone, searching his pockets for spare change on the way.

 

“Hello?” the tired voice asks.

 

“Edward.” Roy’s voice is still crackling.

 

“Oh, Roy, hi. How’s Nijah--,”

 

“They’re taking the rest of the leg.”

 

There’s a shocked gasp. “Oh, fuck. God fucking damnit. Fuck, Roy, I’m so--,”

 

“Tell Shireen. She should be here.”

 

Silence.

 

“Mr. Jacobs dropped her off at the hospital hours ago, Roy. She’s not here.”

 

A loud buzzing has begun in the back of Roy’s head. It matches the slight wriggle in his gut.

 

“Where--,”

 

“Mr. Fuhrer!” a voice gasps behind him, grabbing his shoulder. “Sir, sir!” It’s Sergeant Johnson.

 

He has tears in his eyes.

 

“Sir, there’s, at the cemetery, you, Maes is--,” Johnson isn’t able to hold back his tears. “Maes is gone. I’m so sorry, sir, I’m so very sorry, everyone is searching, we don’t know how it could’ve happened--,”

 

The buzzing in his head turns into a screech. Roy nearly doubles over at the pain in his side.

 

“Did you hear that?” Roy gasps into the phone, ignoring Johnson.

 

“She wouldn’t dare.” Roy can’t remember the last time he’s heard Edward frightened.

 

“Yes, she would.”

 

000

 

They find her in an abandoned warehouse a mile from the cemetery.

 

“Don’t do this, Shireen. Please,” Edwards begs, “Please don’t. You know it won’t work, it can’t work, it’s not possible, sweetheart.”

 

“Maes wouldn’t want this,” Al adds softly.

 

Shireen snaps her fingers, creating a wall of flames to separate them from her.

 

Her circle is meticulously drawn in chalk on the concrete floor of the warehouse, the only part of the floor that’s clear of dust and dirt otherwise. Off to the side is a first aid kit and a spare set of Roy’s gloves.

 

And in the middle is Maes. Dressed in the small black suit he never had the chance to outgrow, eyes shut forever to the world. The shroud, the one Nijah had insisted upon making before she’d fallen so horribly ill, with Maes’ baby blanket sewn into the center, is folded neatly under his head like a pillow.

 

He could be sleeping.

 

He isn’t.

 

“Shireen DON’T!” Ed bellows as she adds one last line to the circle, before entering it and leaning down to kiss Maes’ forehead. She snaps again and the flames climb even higher. “You can’t do this. This isn’t right. It won’t work, it can’t work, Shireen, it is not _possible.”_ As Ed speaks, Roy watches him signalling to Al with his hands, hidden from Shireen behind the smoke and flames. “You’re wasting your life for nothing.”

 

Shireen lines herself up outside the circle, crouching down with her hands out.

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Many things happen at once.

 

Al claps his hands together before dropping to the floor, creating a tunnel under the flames and rocking the foundations of the old and rotting building. Bricks and rocks and dust begin falling from the ceiling in earnest, and Shireen lets out a shriek, jumping up to cover Maes’ body from the debris. Ed sprints through Al’s tunnel, knife drawn, trying to break the circle before Shireen can activate it; there’s a barrier, Roy realizes, a second after Ed. Al’s alchemy can’t reach the circle.

 

All the while, Roy is sprinting through Shireen’s flames. He’s burning, choking, dying. He doesn’t care.

 

It’s the first time he’s felt anything in days.

 

Clothes and hair probably on fire, body wailing, Roy jumps into the circle and tackles Shireen to the ground, her head hitting the floor with a crack.

 

“No. No! NO! I can do it, Dad, NO!” Shireen screams, wriggling in his ironclad grasp, rolling them along the floor. “NO! STOP IT! _LET ME GO!”_

 

She futilely reaches out for the circle, touching it with one hand before Roy can snatch it away. Ed’s on the other side, finally emerged from the tunnel, knife out ready to scratch through the circle on the floor.

 

Roy’s left hand is reaching out for Shireen’s arm. His right arm is around her waist, pinning her to the ground

 

Shireen kicks and rolls them again, and Roy’s right hand brushes the circle.

 

A circle.  

 

“Shireen!” Ed shrieks. “Roy! ROY!”

 

“Brother, get back! It’s too late, we’re too late get BACK!”

 

Black arms reach from nothing, holding Roy and Shireen in place, keeping their circle. In the blue light of the transmutation, Roy watches Al drag his brother back from the rebound. He looks once more at the pale, expressionless face of his child, his son whose age will never reach double digits. He thinks about Nijah and Riza in the hospital, wonders who will have to inform them of the newest tragedy. Roy finally turns his head to face Shireen, whose eyes are wide with unspeakable terror and immediate, overwhelming regret.

 

He wonders if it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.

 

The world turns white white white white white.

 

_Well hello there! I didn’t expect to see you again, Roy!_

 

000

 

000

 

000

 

“Roy….Roy…..ROY! Roy, wake up! WAKE UP!”

 

Roy opens his eyes with a gasp, vision filled with Riza’s face, her tired eyes brimming with concern, her hand soft on his cheek.

 

“Roy?”

 

He buries his face in his wife’s neck and sobs.

 

000

 

“I think Maes is going to ask to see Cook.” Riza says it softly, and Roy nearly doesn’t hear it, curled up as she is into his chest.

 

Roy spent a good half hour recovering from his nightmare, alternating between crying and rushing to the bathroom to retch before he was finally calm and quiet enough to check on his sleeping children. It takes Riza five solid minutes to convince him he can’t call Nijah at two-thirty in the morning.

 

Riza’s now got one of his hands clutched in both of hers, thin fingers tracing over the wide scar on his palm. Roy’s free hand stops its trail through her long hair. “What makes you think that?”

 

Riza shrugs. “Things he’s been saying. He’s just trying to understand, to make sense of all this. Maybe he thinks talking to Cook will help.”

 

“Do _you_ think it will help him?” In another time, Roy would have ranted and raved at the thought of the woman who tried to murder him, who nearly murdered their _son_ , being within ten miles of any of their children.

 

But that was another time.

 

Riza sighs. “I don’t know. Feels like I don’t know anything anymore.” She twists his wedding ring around in slow circles. “But if he wants to, this could be his only chance. We don’t have any say in what happens to her now.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment, contemplating the upcoming trial.

 

“He’s getting better.” Because he is. Maes doesn’t sleep in their bed anymore, hasn’t complained of the dreams or woken with dark circles under his eyes. Not since the heart-stopping morning last week when they’d woken to Maes’ empty bed and Shireen’s open window creaking with the wind. His cheeks are rounding out again, he hasn’t had a panic attack since Gracia’s last unfortunate visit. Yesterday the doctor had finally taken out the stitches, leaving a short pink scar at the corner of his lips.

 

But Maes won’t eat chocolate anymore. His smiles are still difficult to come by.

 

Roy desperately misses his son’s laugh.

 

“Yeah.” Riza hums in agreement.

 

“So, hypothetically,” Roy begins, biting his lip and propping himself up on his elbow. Riza tilts her head up and looks him in the eyes. “If Maes--,”

 

“When Maes--,” Riza interrupts.

 

“When Maes _hypothetically_ asks to see Cook,” Roy asks, “What do we do?”

 

Riza shrugs her shoulders in answer, then curls herself more tightly into his chest. Roy lets his elbow fall and starts playing with her hair again.

 

“Remember the day he was born?” Riza asks softly. As if Roy could ever forget it. “I can remember sitting there after you brought the girls up. We all just sat there on the bed, all together for the first time. The girls were so sweet, and we were all, we were all just so _happy,_ Roy. And forever is a scary thing, but I can remember thinking if this is my forever, if this is it, I’d be okay with it. I’d be happy with this as my forever.” Riza sniffs. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot the past few weeks.”

 

Roy takes a shuddering breath and wraps his arms all the way around Riza, pulling her closer. “But then we wouldn’t know him. We’d love him, but we wouldn’t know him. And that’s the best part, isn’t it?”

 

Riza sniffs again, and pulls back to wipe her eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

 

000

 

Riza ends up being right, because she is Maes’ mother and mother’s intuition, as Roy continues to discover,  is a very real phenomenon.

 

It’s two days later, and Roy is tucking Maes into bed when--

 

“Hey, Dad?”

 

“Yeah, kiddo?” Roy asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. People have remarked on how much Maes resembles Roy ever since he was a baby. But sitting there, with Maes’ glasses off, his brown eyes big and wide and those thick long lashes blinking at him as Maes bites his lip and scrunches his nose nervously--

 

All Roy sees is little Riza.

 

“I think-- I mean I--Dad, I want to talk to Cook. Before the trial happens, I want to talk to her.”

 

Roy isn’t surprised. That doesn’t stop his heart from creeping up into his throat, though. He takes a deep breath and fights to keep his voice even.

 

“Why, Maes?” he asks softly. Maes fidgets his fingers in his lap for a moment before looking up at Roy.

 

“I think I hate her, Dad.”

 

That is absolutely not the answer Roy was expecting.

 

“I hate her, and I don’t like it. It just makes me feel bad inside, and I don’t want to feel bad about this anymore. I thought maybe, maybe if I talked to her it would help.”

 

Roy sits in stunned silence for a moment, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. When Maes starts to frown, Roy realizes he’s taken much too long to respond.

 

“Alright.” Roy finally says. “We--let me talk to Mom first, and I’ll set up some time before the trial. You don’t get to talk to her alone, though, one of us will be with you.”

 

“Good. I don’t--I wouldn’t want to do it alone.” Maes says quietly. His lip quivers.

 

Roy pulls Maes into a hug then, hand on the back of his head and arm tight around his shoulders. He relishes the sound of Maes’ breaths, the feeling of his pounding heart. The warm little hands digging into the back of his shirt.

 

“You’re never alone, Maes, you know that, right? Not ever,” Roy whispers into his hair, and Maes nods his head into Roy’s chest.

 

Not for the first time, Roy wonders at the fact that he helped create someone so good.

 

000

 

“Why the fuck are you letting him do this?” Shireen says angrily, turning toward him with fire in her eyes. Mr. Jacobs kindly keeps his eyes on the road and pretends he can’t hear.

 

Roy sighs. “Mom thinks it could help him.”

 

“But what if it doesn’t?” Shireen asks viciously, “He’s been getting better, what if this just sends him--,”

 

“Shireen, this is the only chance he’ll have to talk to her. We don’t get to decide what happens to Cook, she might…” Roy trails off. “I don’t like it. Of course I don’t. He’s young and he’s traumatized and I don’t fucking like this at all. But if this is something he needs, and I take that chance away from him….” Roy sighs again.

 

“He says he hates her. And hating her makes him feel bad inside. He thinks talking to her will help it go away.”

 

“Oh, Maes.” Shireen says softly, before letting out a hard breath and turning to look out the window. They’re both in uniform, headed to Central Command for work. Riza’s at home for the day, because neither of them feel comfortable leaving Maes without one of them yet. Shireen had woken up late that morning, so her dress shirt’s still untucked, her jacket is unbuttoned, and her hair is flowing long down her back.

 

“At least tuck in your shirt, Shireen,” Roy says after a long silence. It has the desired effect; Shireen turns and smirks at him, rolling her eyes a bit.

 

“I don’t think I’ll be court martialed; I’ve heard the Fuhrer kind of likes me.”

 

“You sure about that?” Roy asks, raising his eyebrows, and Shireen laughs as she tucks in her shirt and finally buttons her jacket.

 

“You need to sleep more. You shouldn’t stay up so late reading,” Roy says, and Shireen grimaces.

 

“I wasn’t.” Shireen pauses before looking up at him, “Maes had a bad dream.”

 

Roy wipes a hand down his face. “I thought they went away. I thought he was finished with those.”

 

Shireen shrugs, “They never go away completely, you know that. Just gotta deal with it,” she says softly, hand coming up unconsciously to swipe at her scar. “Ah, shit.” Shireen mutters.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I forgot a fucking hair tie.”  Roy can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him.

 

“It’s not funny--,”

 

“Turn around, Shireen.” She does, and Roy looks down and separates his daughter’s thick white hair into three portions at the top before falling into the old and familiar pattern of the Aerugean braid. Instead of tying it off at the end, Roy twists the long braid in circles to create a bun. With one hand holding the bun in place, Roy slides one of the medals off his jacket and breaks the pin off the back.

 

“What was that?” Shireen asks at the snap.

 

“Nothing important,” Roy responds, using the pin to hold Shireen’s new hairdo in place. “There, you’re all good to go.”

 

Shireen turns around and smiles softly. “I forgot how good you are at that. What did you use-- oh my _God._ ” Shireen gasps, picking up the medal that Roy discarded on the seat between them. “Oh my God, Dad, you fucking broke the fucking Medal of Honor.”

 

“You needed a hairpin,” Roy says with a shrug.

 

Shireen gapes at him. Then she grins.

 

000

 

Cook’s name is Esther Dabiri.

 

She was born in 1881, in the sleepy Ishvalan village of Armagh. She married Mr. Cyrus Dabiri in 1899. Cyrus Dabiri was reported missing in action in 1905, and was presumed dead.

 

There is no record of a son.

 

Esther immigrated to Amestris in 1910, and eventually made her way to Central City. There she found employment with a small, but well-loved family restaurant, and single-handedly made the place famous with her new recipes and flair for spices.

 

Roy met Esther in 1924. Grumman was hosting the Ishvalan Elders for a dinner following a day of peace talks and discussion of the reformation efforts. Roy understood the need for his presence in the meetings; he was outraged when Grumman asked him to bring his family along for the dinner.

 

“A happy unity of Amestris and Ishval!” Grumman harped throughout the day, and Grumman never said it but Roy knew, he knew his superior wasn’t just talking about the meetings and the dinner. He was talking about the nearest and best example, about Roy’s daughters with their white hair and red eyes, who grew up being told stories of the terrible Flame Alchemist and his Hawk’s eye. He was thinking about their son, little baby Maes who only knew all of them together and would never know them apart, of the happy unity that was their family and his life.

 

Grumman wanted to use Roy’s family.

 

And it _worked_.

 

The Elders were charmed by his daughters, because no one can meet his daughters and not be. They bowed their heads reverently at Nijah’s prayer before the meal, and nodded in solemn approval when it was finished. They laughed at Nijah and Shireen’s fond memories of their childhood, cried when they heard about the horrible car crash, and smiled happily when Shireen talked about the day they were adopted.

 

Then the Ishvalan band Grumman hired began playing, and Maes squirmed in Riza’s arms, clapped his hands together with the beat and laughed loudly.

 

The Elders melted.

 

“I’m sorry,” Roy muttered to Shireen during dessert. “I’m sorry, this isn’t--,” Roy didn’t really know what to say, but Shireen understood. She had understood the moment they were asked to the dinner.

 

Shireen bit her lip then smiled a little at him. “It’s not your fault, Dad. And it helped, didn’t it?”

 

Roy wanted to pull out his hair. “Adopting the two of you, wanting the two of you, it was never about this. Never about any of this. It’s about you two and nothing else. You know that, right?” Roy whispers.

 

Shireen nodded hurriedly. “We know. We’ve always known that.” Roy leaned down and kissed the top of her head, and Shireen finally smiled for real. “At least the food’s good. This dinner’s been fantastic, I’ve missed real kebabs. And the _dolma_.” Shireen’s eyes closed in delight. “I mean, Mom’s a good cook and all, but you can’t cook worth dirt, and Mom doesn’t know how to do Ishvalan food. I wish I could find Mama and Papa’s recipe book from the restaurant…” Shireen trailed off.

 

Which is how Roy Mustang comes to meet, hire, and employ one Esther Dabiri. And for nine years they are happy. His family loves their cook, and their cook seems to love his family.

 

Then, Esther tries to kill Roy.

 

She gets Maes instead.

 

000

 

“Hey sweetheart, how are you feeling?” Roy asks, once Riza finally hands the phone to him after finishing her goodbyes

 

“Dad!” Nijah yelps happily. Roy can picture her grin. “I’m great, I’m so great, Daddy, Winry attached the leg yesterday, and that kind of hurt, but it was over fast but, _Dad--_ ,” she gasps, “Dad, I walked! I walked on two whole real, well, not really real but you know what I mean, but two legs! It was amazing! It’s so amazing, I forgot how different it was, it’s so much smoother, I didn’t hardly limp at all, Winry said it was a good sign. She’s making me taking it off when I sleep since the port’s still healing but, oh Dad. Dad it was wonderful.” Nijah’s breathless by the end.

Roy laughs wetly and runs a hand over his eyes. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

 

“You will soon!” Nijah says emphatically, “Mom says she’s coming to get me Friday, right?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“And soon I’ll be racing Maes, and dancing with Sissy, and I was thinking maybe you and Mom could teach me some of that hand-to-hand stuff, that always seemed cool and useful, and--,”

 

“Walk before you start running, kiddo,” Roy says wryly, and Nijah laughs.

 

“Yeah. Yeah. For now, that’s enough, though. I forgot how much I missed it. It’s like I blocked out how easy and wonderful it was when I knew I couldn’t do it. Feels kind of like the world’s a new place.”

 

Roy remembers years and years ago, a lumpy hospital bed and a quiet lieutenant and a world that would never see light again. He remembers the hope in Dr. Marcoh’s voice and in his own heart, remembers scorching red light and pain pain pain before the world was new again with Riza’s smiling face at the center.

 

“I know what you mean,” Roy says softly.

 

“Yeah. I think you do.” Nijah sighs happily, “Ed and Al probably do, too. And Uncle Jean. I feel like I’ve joined some horribly wonderful club.”

 

“Yes, well, membership is definitely for life. You don’t have to pay anymore fees for admission.”

 

There’s silence for a moment. Then Nijah positively _cackles._ Roy can’t help but join in.

 

“Hey, Nijah,” Roy finally says, and Nijah settles down, “I just--I’m really proud of you, Nijah. I know I wasn’t as supportive as I should’ve been from the beginning. I was scared for you, but it wasn’t fair of me to treat you the way I did. You were so brave. You’re so strong, sweetheart, and I--I’m so happy for you. I’m happy and I’m very, very proud.”

 

Nijah sniffs. “That’s not fair. You can’t say stuff like that when I can’t hug you, Daddy.” And Roy laughs again.

 

“Soon. I’ll see you soon.”

 

“Lost and Found,” Nijah says suddenly.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“That’s the club name. The Lost and Found.”

 

“Nijah, you’re ridiculous.”

 

“I’m hilarious. I’m going to get Ed to help me draft a charter. I’m thinking bi-monthly club meetings, fundraisers in Rush Valley, the whole shebang. Obviously, I will be president. You can be my vice-president, if you so wish.”

 

“Nijah, I’m the _Fuhrer._ ”

 

Nijah scoffs. “That means nothing, Al’s a member so it’s an international club. Oooh, we should get Lan Fan in on this, too. Dad, this is going to be so great, I’m so glad you’ve unequivocally agreed to help me fund my new awesome club!”

 

“Nijah--,”

 

“Oh hey, talk to Sammy, I have to get Ed, he had something he wanted to say--,”

 

“Nijah--,”

 

“Bye! I love you so much! Sweet dreams!”

 

“I love you, too, but _Nijah_ \--,”

 

“Uh, Uncle Roy, this is Sammy.” Roy sighs and rubs a tired hand down his face.

 

“Hello, Sammy. How are you?”

 

“I’m good. It’s raining a lot, but it’s not June anymore so Daddy says the muck monsters won’t get me.”

 

“What--?”

 

“Bye-bye Uncle Roy! Here’s Daddy.”

 

“Bastard, we need to talk,” Fullmetal says, voice hard. Roy can’t help but roll his eyes.

 

“What have you done to your poor child, Fullmetal? He thinks muck monsters are going to _eat_ him?”

 

“Nah, he thinks Ben and Nina are going to eat him. He just thinks muck monsters are going to _get_ him, there’s a big difference.”

 

“Oh for God’s sake--,”

 

“That’s not the point. What the fuck did I receive in the mail yesterday?”

 

“Well, Edward, I don’t know. A letter perhaps? It’s a crime in this country to open mail that’s not addressed to you, so I wouldn’t know--,”

 

“No, you bastard, I got a fucking letter from your fucking accountant asking for a fucking invoice for Nijah’s automail and surgery.”

 

“Why is that a bad thing?” Roy asks, genuinely confused. “Don’t you think Winry wants to be paid, Fullmetal?”

 

“She does NOT.” Edward rages. “She absolutely does not, and I don’t want her to be.”

 

“You aren’t doing this pro bono. Nijah’s our daughter, it’s her leg, and obviously you know we’re good for it--,”

 

“Well so are we!” Edward shouts. “I made a promise ten years ago. I said once Nijah turned sixteen the automail’s on Winry and me. I said that and I meant it, and Nijah did her waiting. I plan on upholding my end of the promise.”

 

“You made that when you didn’t know what we would do, you weren’t sure what would happen to them--,”

 

“I don’t give a shit. You’re not paying.”

 

“Edward--,”

 

“Look, Mustang, I’ve done pretty well with long promises in my life. I promised Al we’d get his body back. I promised you I’d get you that stupid 520 cens when you became Fuhrer. I promised Win--well, that’s none of your business but I kept it. Let me keep this promise, too. I like racking up the good karma.”

 

“You don’t believe in karma.”

 

“I absolutely believe in karma. I just call it something different. Can’t wait to see you at the next Lost and Found meeting, Mr. Secretary!”

 

Roy sputters. “I’m the vice-president!”

 

“Nope, I am now. Nijah and I think you’d be much better at taking minutes.”

 

“What the fu--”

 

Edward hangs up the phone.

 

000

 

“Are you sure, Maes? Are you absolutely positive you don’t want me to come? I can try to get a train this afternoon, or just wait until tomorrow, you know Nijah won’t mind too much. She would understand.”

 

Maes just shakes his head. “No, Mom, go. Really, it’s fine. I promise it’s fine, we won’t be very long. And Dad will be with me, I’ll be okay.”

 

Riza grimaces before pulling Maes into a tight hug. “I love you, my Maesy.”

 

“I love you more.” Riza finally smiles.

 

“I love you most.”

 

“I love you more than most,” Maes finishes with a small grin, pulling away from Riza.

 

“Impossible.” Riza pets down the cowlick on the back of Maes’ head before turning around and pulling Roy into a hug.

 

“Just--,” Riza whispers in his ear.

 

_Be careful. Stay safe. Don’t be stupid. WATCH HIM. Be gentle. Remember to breathe._

 

“I will.” Roy whispers back just as quietly, before leaning down and kissing his wife.

 

“Ugh, please stop,” Maes says with a gag.

 

But he’s smiling.

 

It makes Roy smile, too.

 

000

 

Cook’s trial has unexpectedly been moved up to the upcoming Monday. She’ll be moved to the holding cells in the Central City courthouse at an undisclosed time this weekend to avoid a media frenzy. Friday is her last official day in the most high-security cell of the prison.

 

Today is the last chance Maes now has of speaking with Cook before the trial.

Maes is quiet during the ride to the prison. It’s not a very long trip, but Maes brings a book along. He’s seems too distracted to read, though, just lets the book sit in his lap and flips through the edge of the pages with his thumb as he stares out the window.

 

 _Alchemy:_ Roy reads, _Past and Present._

 

_By A. Elric and E. Elric_

 

“Ed wanted to call it ‘Why the Philosopher’s Stone is Bullshit, and other nifty facts’.”

 

Maes laughs out loud.

 

(Roy wants to cry. He’s _missed_ Maes’ laugh.)

 

When Maes’ laugher eventually dies down, Roy finally says, “That’s not exactly light reading, Maes. Are you interested in alchemy?”

 

Maes shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno. Elysia recommended the book, said I might like some of the chapters.” Maes turns to Roy, his eyes searching. “If I am interested in alchemy though, would you--would you teach me?”

 

Roy feels his lips quirk up in an unexpected grin. “Of course I will. I might have to fight off Shireen for the honor, though.”

 

And Maes laughs again.

 

000

 

They arrive at the prison a few minutes later. The warden is waiting for them out front, introduces himself and leads them up the front drive. The MPs follow closely behind, on high alert ever since Maes was poisoned. Johnson’s on duty today; Roy’s begrudgingly glad at that fact. Maes has always been friendly with Johnson.

 

(Roy is less happy about Johnson’s “friendship” with Shireen, but that is a problem for another day.)

 

The closer they get to the prison, the further Maes shrinks into Roy’s side. When Maes reaches for Roy’s hand (Maes, his nine year old who’s been attempting to be mature since he could talk, who hasn’t held Roy’s hand in public, let alone _reached out_ for Roy’s hand in public in _years_ ), Roy stops.

 

He squats down, putting Maes at eye-level, one hand still gripping his while the other grasps his son’s shoulder tightly.

 

“Maes,” Roy says seriously. “Maes, look at me.” For Maes had been desperately trying to avoid his eyes, hung down in probably embarrassment and that simply won’t do. “Maes.”

 

Maes finally looks up. And his eyes, Riza’s eyes, are shiny and round and scared and--

 

“You don’t have to do this,” Roy whispers, squeezing Maes’ hand. “You really, really don’t. If you don’t want to do this, we can go home right now, don’t feel like you have to--,”

 

“I want to.” He says it firmly, eyes growing hard with resolve. “I need to, Dad.”

 

Roy takes a deep breath. “Alright,” he says softly. “Alright.” Roy stands up, and they continue following the warden, on the way to the interview room.

 

He doesn’t let go of Maes’ hand.

 

000

 

“Have they told you why we’re here?” Roy asks, voice hard. Esther nods slowly. She’s leaned slightly forward, the handcuffs around her wrists attached to a ring on the table between them. Roy knows her ankles have been similarly bound, knows there’s a leather strap around her waist keeping her in the chair. Her white hair is long and lank, there are dark circles under her eyes, and the gray jumpsuit makes her seem astonishingly pale despite her dark skin.

 

Roy doesn’t want Maes to come in. He doesn’t want his son to see her like this.

 

“Mr. Maes wants to talk to me.” Nijah and Shireen never really had Ishvalan accents. They were born in Amestris, always went to school in this country, and though they grew up bilingual, their Amestrian has always been natural. Sometimes Roy hears it, in the hard A’s and the long I’s, in the way his daughters’ tongues will occasionally roll their R’s, but not very often.

 

Cook’s accent has always been thick, a reminder of Ishval. Of shouted orders across a battlefield. Of prayers of protection and stilted pleas for mercy.

 

“Yes. He does.” Roy finally says. “I will be in the room the whole time. You speak when you’re spoken to, answer his questions to the best of your ability. You will not,” Roy glares, “ask any questions of him. Am I understood?”

 

“Yes.” It used to be yes, sir. Or yes, Mr. Fuhrer. Yes, Your Excellency.

 

Esther no longer has a reason to show Roy Mustang any farce of respect.

 

“You won’t see him again.” Roy doesn’t know why he adds that. Maybe he wants to add insult to injury. Maybe he’s trying to ensure Maes receives the kindness that he’s come to expect from this woman.

 

“I know.” She whispers it, and a tear Roy knows she can’t physically wipe away rolls down her cheek.

 

Roy stands then, and goes to the door, opening it slowly. Maes is out in the hallway beyond. Johnson’s standing next to him, with a hand on Maes’ shoulder.

 

“Ready?” Roy asks, and Maes nods, walking forward. He puts his hands where Johnson’s was before, gently guiding Maes into the room. Maes keeps his head down, seating himself carefully in the chair opposite Cook. There’s another chair, but Roy remains standing, hand still on Maes’ shoulder.

 

The door closes with a _snick_ , and Maes finally looks up.

 

“Hello, Cook.” Maes says it quietly, voice tired.

 

“Hello, Mr. Maes.”

 

“What was your son’s name?”

 

Cook’s eyes snap up to meet Roy’s, filled with shock; she hasn’t expected this, especially not so soon. Roy raises his eyebrows in response. This is for Maes, and she will answer his questions to the best of her ability, no matter what they may be.

 

“Hassan. His name was Hassan. It means ‘good’ or ‘handsome’.”

 

“Was he?” Maes asks quietly, eyes not leaving Cook’s face. She can’t look him in the eye. “Was Hassan good and handsome?”

 

A small, soft smile unwillingly quirks Cook’s lips. “He was very handsome, took after my Cyrus.” Cook closes her eyes. “Hassan was sweet. Very kind. He--he loved to pick me flowers.” She tips her head down. A tear drips onto the tabletop.

 

Maes stares at the tear stain.

 

“How old was he when he died?”

 

“Eight.”

 

Roy swallows back the bile creeping up his throat.

 

Amestrian records of life events in Ishval during the war, births and deaths and marriages, are difficult, nearly impossible, to track down. They’d never known about Hassan Dabiri, because to the government, Hassan Dabiri never existed.

 

Hassan Dabiri had never known a life without war.

 

He’d been even younger than Maes when he died. When Roy killed him. When Esther Dabiri joined the army and left her only son in her mother’s care, in the quiet, sleepy village of Armagh.

 

Roy doesn’t remember Hassan Dabiri.

 

But he remembers Armagh. He remembers being so close he choked on the smoke. He remembers the sounds of buildings collapsing, the shrieks of the dying. The smell of burning flesh.

 

Roy had been told Armagh was a weapons stronghold, that it had been evacuated of families and overrun by the Ishvalan army weeks before.

 

It was only when he heard the wailing babies that Roy realized he’d been fed a lie.

 

Maes sucks in a short, hard breath.

 

“It must have hurt so much to lose him. Especially like that.”

 

“It did. It still does. The worst pain I’ll ever feel.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment. Another tear slips down Cook’s cheek.

 

“Cook, do you--do you hate me?”

 

Cook’s face finally crumples. “No, no Mr. Maes, no, I don’t hate you. Darling, I could never, ever hate you. I’ve always loved you, loved spending time with you, cooking with you. I saved all those pictures you drew for me, every single--,”

 

“Then why did you hurt me?” Maes’ voice is high, nearly a whine. Roy squeezes his shoulder so hard it’s probably painful, but Maes doesn’t brush him away or squirm.

 

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Mr. Maes, I didn’t mean to. I--,” Cook stops, because she doesn’t need to finish. They all know who she really wanted to kill that day.

 

Maes shakes his head quickly. His eyes are shining. “But you did. You were always going to hurt me. It was for Dad, you wanted to kill my dad.” Maes chokes on a sob.

 

Oh, _Maes._

 

“You were gonna take him away forever, make me hurt the way you hurt, the way you miss Hassan. And I was sitting right there, you knew I was sitting next to him. You were going to make me watch him _die._ ” Maes dissolves into tears.

 

And Roy is finished.

 

He crouches down and wraps his arms around his son. Maes hugs him back, until Roy begins to pick him up.

 

“No, no Dad I’m not--let me go, I’m not done.” He pushes Roy away.

 

“Maes--,”

 

“No. I need to know why.” Maes looks back up at Cook, eyes still bright, but hard. “I understand why you wanted to kill Dad. But why were you alright hurting me?”

 

Silence. Roy looks away from his son long enough to watch Cook drop her head. If her hands were free, he knows her head would be buried in them.

 

“Hate made it easy to ignore the things I did not wish to see,  Mr. Maes. Hate made me blind.”

 

000

 

That afternoon, Roy looks up from a mind-numbing report on the proposed division of costs tunneling through the mountains for a new train line over the Aerugean border to the sound of the piano.

 

Soft smile on his face, Roy leaves the mound of paperwork behind and sneaks to the living room.

 

Riza had forced all of their children into piano lessons, said she refused to watch the beautiful grand piano gifted to them by Grumman gather dust. Shireen loathed every second of it. Nijah put up with the lessons for a year, before switching to the violin.

 

Maes plays. Maes is _good._

 

Quietly, Roy leans in the doorway of the room and watches his son, his small fingers flying up and down the keys. Maes’ back is to the door, and Roy sees his son’s body sway a bit with the music. His feet are pointed at the floor, straining to reach the pedals.

 

“That one sounded familiar,” Roy says, once Maes finishes playing. Maes jumps up in his seat and turns around, sheepish smile on his face.

 

“I found the music at the bottom of the bench,” Maes says, handing Roy the yellowed and fading music sheets when he approaches.

 

 _The Spinning Song_ Roy reads. In the top right corner, in loopy, childish handwriting is the name Elizabeth Grumman. Underneath, in the neat cursive Roy knows better than his own, it says Riza Hawkeye.

 

“I remember Mom played if for me once when I was little, said her mom played it for her. I thought maybe I could get really good and play it for Mom on her birthday, it’s only a few weeks away,” Maes says earnestly.

 

“She’ll love that,” Roy says, because she will. Riza will treasure that gift more than anything Roy will ever think to get her. Maes beams. “Are you going to add your name?” he asks, nodding to the signatures on the page corner.

 

Maes scrunches his nose. “I dunno, it’s not really mine.” And Roy shakes his head, before reaching for his shirtpocket and pulling out his pen.

 

“Sign it. She’ll like it, I know she will.”

 

So Maes adds his name. His cursive his shaky, but neat, his hand a bit heavier than Riza’s, nowhere near as loopy as his grandmother’s. Maes Mustang.

 

Life is a list, a line, life is a circle, Roy can’t help but think, and it spins and spins and spins and spins until you just can’t hang on anymore.

 

And then you begin again.

 

000

 

“What do you want for breakfast?” Roy asks, looking up from his coffee to the blurry-eyed nine year old sitting at the counter.

 

“Hmmmm,” Maes hums, dragging his fingertip on the rim of the orange juice Roy poured for him. “Can we make omelettes?”

 

“Yeah, I think we can do that,” Roy says with a wink, turning to grab the eggs. Then the front door slams open.

 

“We’re home!” Riza shouts.

 

Maes and Roy both scramble to the foyer.

 

“MOM!” Maes yelps, rushing to the door. Riza barely has time to drop her bag before Maes has leapt on her.

 

“Hey, my Maesy,” Riza says, rubbing his back and pulling him close.

 

“We weren’t expecting--,” Roy begins, before he’s assaulted by a white and tan blur.

 

“Daddy!”

 

“Nijah?” Roy asks, and the head digging into his shoulder nods, hugging him close. “God, Nijah you’re so _fast._ ”

 

“She’s not supposed to be running yet,” Riza admonishes, Maes still in her arms as she leans over to kiss Roy. Nijah finally looks up, red eyes dancing.

 

“Look, Dad, look at my leg. Isn’t it _amazing_?” Nijah says pulling back and riding up her pant leg, revealing the shining metal underneath.

 

“Wow.” Maes breathes, sliding out of Riza’s arms for a closer look. “Nijah, it’s so cool.”

 

“Yeah,” Nijah agrees, before shaking her head and squawking “MAES! Hey Maesy!” and she pulls him into a crushing hug.

 

“Hi,” Maes says with a little laugh, snuggling into his sister’s side. Roy wraps an arm around Riza’s shoulder.

 

“You’re early,” he whispers in her ear. “We weren’t expecting you until tonight.”

 

Riza shrugs. “Just wanted to be home.” Roy pulls her tighter and kisses her head.

 

“Maes Mustang!” A voice rings out from the top of the bannister. “Your stupid dog came and woke me up when he got lonely! And on my day off, the nerve of this monster.” Shireen finally comes into view at the top of the stairs. Said stupid dog is held in her arms, curled protectively into her chest and continuously licking her face.

 

“Mom! Nijah! You’re home!” Shireen yelps, rushing down the stairs. She sets Little Hayate down gently on the last step as Nijah runs to her.

 

“Sissy!” Shireen catches Nijah when she jumps, spins her around in a circle.

 

“Oh Nijah,” Shireen’s eyes well with tears. “Oh, you can _run_ . I haven’t, you’ve-- _Nijah._ ”

 

Riza swipes a hand across her eyes. Roy sniffs.

 

“I wasn’t done with my hug!” Maes says petulantly, squirreling himself in between in sisters.

 

“Well, I haven’t even gotten my hug yet!” Riza says wryly, grabbing Roy’s hand and dragging him with her to the kids before wrapping her arms around Shireen from behind. Then Roy picks up Maes and Nijah grabs his arm and they’re all hugging and it’s cheesy and ridiculous and they laugh and laugh and at some point they fall down on the bottom stair in a pile and Little Hayate keeps barking at them and licking any face he can reach and--

 

Roy is happy. He’s really fucking _happy_.

 

000

 

“So, do you feel better? Did visiting her help?” Roy hears Riza ask quietly that night, as she’s tucking Maes into bed. Roy hides himself in the shadow of the doorway and listens.

 

“Yeah, I--I feel better, Mom. It was hard, but I’m glad I did it. Dad helped.”

 

“I’m glad.” Riza pauses. “Do you still hate her?”

 

Maes sighs. “I’m still mad at her. I’m really mad about everything still. But she made me realize, well, Mom, actions are what hurt people, you know? It’s the things you do that hurt other people. But hate, any hate I have for her or anybody else, maybe it would make me want to do bad things. But the actual hate, the bad feeling that I have inside, the only person it hurts is me.

 

“After I figured that out, it seemed kinda silly to hate her anymore. So now I don’t.”

 

So now he doesn’t.

 

“Well, that’s a very wise decision,” Riza finally croaks out, and Roy hears her kiss Maes’ head.

 

“Hey, Mom?”

 

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

 

“If--if I did die, would you and Dad have killed Cook?”

 

Deep breath from Riza. “Yes. Yes, we probably would have. We’re not as wise as you quite yet, Maesy.”

 

Silence.

 

“Do you think Dad and Shireen would have tried to transmute me?” Roy slaps hand over his mouth to hold in his gasp.

 

“No.” Riza’s voice is firm. “They would never do that to you. They wouldn’t do it to themselves. And there’s no way in hell I’d ever even let them think about it, you know that.”

 

Maes lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s--that’s good.”

 

“I wish I could take all your worries away.” Riza admits, voice soft.

 

“You just did.”

 

Not for the first time, Roy wonders at the fact that he and Riza created someone so good.

 

000

 

“I understand what you meant about forever,” Roy whispers in Riza’s ear that night in bed. “This morning on the stairs, I’d be alright if that was my forever. I’d be happy with that moment for always.”

 

Riza smiles and kisses underneath his jaw.

 

“It would be shame to miss them growing up, though.” She grabs his hand, twists his wedding ring in slow circle around his finger. “I suppose it’s our burden and our privilege, to watch them grow.”

 

Roy grabs hand and kisses her palm. “Yeah. I suppose it is.”

 

000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nijah's convo with Ed, whilst Sammy is on the phone with Roy:
> 
> N: Hey Dad's on the phone. We're starting a new club. You're a founding member. 
> 
> E: Obviously. 
> 
> N: I'm the president, he's the vice president.
> 
> E: I'm the vice president.
> 
> N: You're the vice president, Dad is the secretary. 
> 
> E: Yes. What's the club?
> 
> N: It's called Lost and Found. More details to follow. 
> 
> E: Sounds good. (into phone) Bastard, we need to talk.


	11. Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! *waves* this is a lot of sap. Hope you like it.

1915—Central City 

Roy is shaking when Dr. Marcoh and Breda lower him into the circle.  

He’s clenching his still bandaged hands so tightly that what can be seen of his knuckles is turning white, and Riza is afraid Roy’s lip is going to start bleeding soon. She knows she’s not the only one who’s noticed their Colonel’s blatant and uncharacteristic fear when Havoc’s arm around her tightens.  

“It’s okay, Chief,” he says lightly, “I swear, it’ll feel weird, but it won’t hurt. And it’ll work, Doc knows what he’s doin’, dontcha, Doc?”  

Dr. Marcoh’s scarred face positively _glares_ back at Havoc.  

“I’ve studied the anatomy of the eye extensively, and I do have experience with philosophers’ stones. I will do my level best, Colonel.” 

“I know.” Roy says it quietly, and he does finally relax a bit, leaning back into the circle and letting his head rest on the tiled floor.  

He’s still shaking.  

“Can we have a minute?” Riza rasps out, it’s hardly even a whisper, but her voice carries in the small, unused hospital room. She’s still really not supposed to be talking, but she can again, and this, this is important.  

Everyone files out of the room quickly, with hurried nods and backward glances at their blind Colonel on the floor.  

Everyone besides Havoc.  

“Uh, Hawkeye, you sure--,” 

“I’m fine, Jean.” Her voice cracks on his name, and Roy turns toward them, brow furrowed. “Just make sure I don’t trip and break the circle.” 

Havoc grimaces, but does help settle her gently on the ground next to Roy, as close as she can get without touching the lines. Her vision spins a bit at the change in elevation—she lost a lot of blood, and _technically_ she’s not supposed to be out of bed yet.  

As if she’d miss this.  

Havoc ensures she’s sitting comfortably before backing quietly out of the room, shutting the door behind him.  

Riza grabs Roy’s hand.  

All of the tension finally leaves his body. He goes boneless on the floor.  

“Roy.” He doesn’t turn his head to her, his milky, damp eyes glued to the ceiling.  

She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to prattle on and on until her voice is really and truly gone, but at least make Roy smile with her last words.  

She wants desperately to take the fear out of his eyes.  

“I love you.”  

Roy finally turns his head to her. She’s never said it to him before, and now that feels like a crime, to love someone so much, so wholly and completely and never actually say it out loud.  

“I love you more.” Leave it to Roy Mustang to make it a contest. Riza can’t help her grin.  

“I love you most.” 

Roy squeezes her hand.  

“I love you more than most.” 

Riza laughs. “That’s impossible.” 

Roy finally smiles. His eyes are still cloudy with tears, and his grip on her hand is near painful, but he smiles, and Riza feels like she can take a breath.  

She rubs her thumb slowly up and down the side of his bandaged hand. “But I suppose,” Riza whispers, “I suppose impossible things happen every day, don’t they?”  

Because madmen call down God from the moon, and little girls with terrible fathers turn into dogs. Little girls with wonderful fathers watch them die, and Immortal beings fall in love with ordinary ones. Countries get turned into transmutation circles and wars are started solely for the sake of bloodshed.  

Little boys turn into armor turn into little boys again. All with the clap of a hand.  

What is one more impossible thing today? What is one more clap today? 

Roy takes a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose they do.” 

000 

 When Roy opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is her. The first thing he does is sit up, reach out his hand and wipe the tears on her cheeks.  

Riza hadn’t even realized she’d been crying.  

“I was so afraid I’d never see you again.” 

She does now.  

000 

“I want to see Alphonse.” It’s Roy’s first request, once they’ve gotten him out of the circle and he’s had to chance to thank Dr. Marcoh properly, once he’s suffered through bear hugs bestowed unhesitatingly on him by Falman, Breda, Fuery, and Havoc.  

“Then let’s go see Alphonse,” Riza says, as loudly as she can manage. It’s still barely more than a whisper, as she steps out from under Havoc’s arm around her shoulder to grab Roy’s hand again.  

“Hawkeye,” Jean begins, warning in his voice. Because maybe she came here in a wheelchair, and maybe she’s not supposed to be out of bed because she possibly kind of maybe passed out on her way back to bed from using the bathroom this morning and maybe Roy doesn’t know any of this yet because Riza swore Havoc to secrecy and-- 

“We’ll be okay.” Roy surely hasn’t missed the knowing look Havoc was giving her, can’t have missed it, because for all the greetings and thanks and discussions he’s had beyond her since his sight came back, his eyes haven’t strayed very far away from her, not once.  

But he replaces Havoc’s arm around her shoulders, pointedly ignores the wheelchair by the door, and waves goodbye to everyone as they slowly make their way out.  

“You’ll tell me if you need to stop.” It’s a statement, not a question, whispered softly into her hair.  

“Yes, sir.” 

It’s quiet, their walk down the empty halls. They’re in a mostly empty part of the hospital, one that had recently be closed for renovations. And they’re walking slowly, so damn slowly, and Riza’s sure Roy just wants to hop skip jump, to run, because he’s been basically healthy except for the fact that he was blind, cooped up in a hospital for days on end.  

But he lets her set the pace. And as they reach the end of the hall, and the stairs that will take them down to Edward and Alphonse’s room, when she says “stop”, he pulls her over to an empty chair immediately.  

“Are you okay? Do you need water? I can go back and get the chair, where’s the elevator, isn’t there--,” 

“Just need a minute,” She interrupts him. He nods thoughtfully, and takes a seat beside her. His eyes still haven’t left her face.  

“What’s your list?”  

“Hmm?” 

“Your list?” Riza asks, because she knows him, and she’s absolutely positive it exists. “The list of things you need to see, now that you can see again.”  

Roy smiles ruefully. “Think I’m checking off the boxes?”  

“I know you are. What’s after Alphonse?” 

“Ed’s arm, I suppose. But I kind of lumped that in together with Alphonse.” Riza nods knowingly. “Elysia. I need—I should visit her more. It would’ve been sad to not see her grow up. I owe Hughes that, at least, if he can’t see it.  

“I’d like to go to the beach, I’ve never been before. Maybe climb a mountain. Actually sit and watch the sunset—sunrise, too. And I want, I want to go back to your house, sit by that old pond and the dock, go fishing again. We were always—we were always happy there. It’s so peaceful. It’s one of my favorite places in the world. 

“And you--,” but Roy stops himself, a blush growing on his cheeks.  

“I’m that far down, huh?” Riza asks with a laugh.  

“No! No! You were the top of the list, of course you were, I just--,” Roy finally looks away from her face, out the window to the now setting sun.  

“What is it?”  

“When it finally sank in, when I really realized I was actually blind, I just—my first thought, it--,” Roy shakes his head and looks back at her, biting his lip. “I realized I’d never see you in a wedding dress.” 

Riza’s not quite sure the look she must make at that, but Roy grabs her hand. “I know we can’t now, not this minute, maybe not for years. There are other things we have to do first. But I just—I want to marry you, Riza. Maybe it won’t even happen until we’re old and gray, but I don’t care. I don’t. I just love you so much, and the thought that I wouldn’t see it when it happened was--,” Roy isn’t able to continue.  

“I love you.” Riza says it to him for the second time in her life. “For that split second when I couldn’t talk and you couldn’t see and I thought it would be that way always, that—that was my list. The things I needed to say. I love you, Roy.” 

Then his lips are on hers, and his hands are in her hair and on her back and she’s crying, maybe he is too, but they’re alive, and they’re together and they’re in love and-- 

Nothing else needs to be said.  

000 

Roy cries again when he sees Alphonse for the first time.  

“Lieutenant, what the hell are we going to do? Fullmetal has a clone!” Roy laughs around his tears, gently, so gently, wrapping the tiny boy in a hug.  

Al hugs him back as tightly as he can, the strain of it obvious in his shaking, twig-like arms. He looks better than he did a week ago, his long hair brushed through and braided back like Ed’s, the bed sheets and hospital gown covering most of his still emaciated body.  

Al’s cheeks are too thin, his gold eyes enormous within a sunken head. His arms are knobby, his golden hair brittle. He simultaneously looks everything and nothing like Edward.  

“I’m so glad it worked, Colonel,” Riza hears Al whisper into Roy’s chest, and Roy hugs him closer still, hand on the back of his head.  

“Just glad I finally got to meet you, Alphonse.”  

Edward snorts wetly from beside Riza on his own bed, wiping his nose with the hand not in a sling. Riza sighs and pulls a tissue from the box on the bedside table, handing it to him.  

“Stop being such enormous saps, the both of you,” Edward whines, blowing his nose with the tissue. He uses the used tissue to wipe his wet eyes, “It’s pathetic really.”  

Riza wraps an arm around Ed’s shoulders and pulls him in close. He rests his head on her shoulder, his hair tickling her neck.  

She thinks about the little boy she met five years ago, stuck in a chair, no arm, no leg, a suit of armor for a brother. The two little boys from the middle of nowhere who missed their mother and were much too smart for their own good.  

She thinks about her Colonel, her Roy, the little idealist she met when she was eleven. The boy who just wanted to do some good in the world, and the world punished him so cruelly for it.  

Riza thinks about them, about where they were and what they’ve done, and just how far they’ve come. Just how much they have left to accomplish.  

It feels like an ending, and maybe it is, but it’s the best of beginnings, too. They’ve won the day. And their prize, their prize is the rest of their lives, to live and grow and love and _be_. 

For better or worse, they are still here. The world continues to spin for them.  

It is the scariest and most exciting thought Riza’s ever entertained.  

Because none of them _ever_ know what tomorrow will bring.  

000 

1925—Central City 

_"Just glad I finally got to meet you, Alphonse,' the Colonel chokes out, his eyes bright while he hugs Alphonse Elric close._

_“’Stop being such enormous saps, the both of you,’ the_ _Fullmetal_ _Alchemist says, as he rests his head on the Lieutenant’s shoulder._   _'It's pathetic really.' But it's not._

 _“T_ _here's no such thing as a painless lesson,’ Edward_ _Elric_ _thinks as he watches the Colonel and his little brother. ‘They just don't exist. Sacrifices are necessary. You can't gain anything without losing something first. Although...if you can endure that pain and walk away from it, you'll find that you now have a heart strong enough to overcome any obstacle. Yeah... a heart made_ _Fullmetal_ _.’”_  

 _~_  

 _“This concludes the final episode of the radio serial ‘The_ _Fullmetal_ _Alchemist’. We at the station would like to extend a special thank you to all our dedicated listeners from the--”_  

CLICK 

Roy falls back into the couch after leaning forward to switch off the radio, Maes sound asleep on his lap.  

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Nijah whispers softly at Riza’s side, her red eyes wet. “I knew it was a happy ending, I knew it was real and everything, I’m just--,” Nijah doesn’t continue.  

Shireen sniffs loudly from Riza’s other side.  

“Remember when Papa let us stay up late to listen to the first episode, while Mama was closing the restaurant?”  

Nijah lets out a little laugh. “Mama was so mad. Especially after it gave me nightmares. Remember nice Nurse Ophelia? When she snuck the radio in after your surgery so we could listen, when I told her it was your favorite?”  

Riza feels Shireen nod from where her head is buried into Riza’s shoulder. Riza tightens her arms around both of them.  

“Remember when we met Ed for the first time, and you said you thought he was a superhero?” 

Roy laughs at that. “Ed still hasn’t let me live that one down.” 

“It was a good serial,” Shireen says softly.  

“I’m sad that it’s over.” Nijah adds.  

“Honey it’s not over, not really.” Riza finally says. “After that day, another story began. And another, and another. Life is really just stories, beginning and ending and beginning again. Living them, sharing them.  

“And the best part is, now you’re both part of our story, too. You two, and Maes, and the Hughes and the Elrics and anybody else who joins our family along the way. It just keeps on growing.” 

She thinks about them, these two little girls who sneaked their way so easily into their hearts. These two children who lost so much, yet who still chose to give them so much life. So much hope and goodness and love.  

Riza thinks about Maes, her little baby, the miracle she never expected, with his hair and face and mannerisms, so much like Roy, just like Roy really, but for her big brown eyes peeking up at them with such curiosity. Such love and awe for the world around him. 

And Riza thinks about her husband. Her Roy. The Fuhrer. The boy she met when she was eleven years old, a little idealist who just wanted to do some good in the world.  

The world is finally rewarding him for it. It’s rewarding both of them for it.  

“I love you, Mom,” Shireen says softly. Riza kisses her head.  

“I love you more.” 

“I love all of you the most,” Roy says smugly.   

“Well I love you all more than most!” Nijah proclaims.  

Roy and Riza both smile. “That, my dear, is impossible,” Riza says.  

“But I suppose,” Roy adds, before kissing Maes’ head and standing up to take him to bed, “I suppose impossible things happen every day, don’t they?”  

Riza will never stop being grateful that, for better or worse, they do. 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I've said many, many times that I'm ending this story, but I probably am now. I haven't been quite drawn to it in awhile, and I haven't actually watched Fullmetal Alchemist recently, so I feel really removed from the source material if that makes sense? Anyway, I love these characters so much still, so thank you for being kind, and loving them, too. I just needed this to have a good ending, and I felt like coming full circle back to Riza and the way this whole story started was appropriate. 
> 
> Thanks for your support, and for reading this monster of a story. Honestly, the comments and love for this make my day.
> 
> Also, quote at the end, during the radio serial part, is directly from the last episode. Should probably credit this better but I am lazy. Bye!


End file.
